/ 


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MAILED  AT  PRICES  ABOVE-NAMED  BY 

Every  Where  Pub.  Co.,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


A    THOUSAND 
MORE  VERSES 


BY 


WILL  CARLETON. 


NEW  YORK: 
EVERY  WHERE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1912, 
BY  WILL  CARLETON. 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


FIRST  WORDS. 

The  word  "Verse"  is  from  the  Latin  "Ver- 
sus", a  line  or  row. 

It  means,  as  applied  to  literature,  not  a 
stanza,  as  is  often  supposed,  but  a  line  of 
poetry,  or  that  which  its  author  claims  or 
designates  as  such. 

The  author  of  this  book  having  been  writ- 
ing more  or  less  verses  all  through  his  life 
thus  far,  inserts  the  word  "more"  between 
the  second  and  fourth  words  of  the  book's 
title.  There  will  be  found  a  thousand  verses 
in  the  book,  and  perhaps  ,a  few  in  addition, 
for  good  (or  bad)  measure. 

Some  people  like  to  carry  poems  around, 
and  read  them  as  they  have  time  and  oppor- 
tunity. That  is  why  this  edition  of  the  book 
is  made  of  suitable  size  to  be  a  guest  of  the 


M191795 


FIRST    WORDS. 

pocket,  or   of  the   traveling-case,    or  of  the 
mesh-bag. 

More  explanations  will  be  found,  in  Ital- 
ics, -opposite  some  of  the  poems.  These  are 
used,  because  an  introduction  to  a  subject  in 
prose,  often  makes  the  reader  more  likely  to 
read  the  poem  itself. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Christmas  Bells'  Mission     ...  9 

New  Year  and  Old  Year 11 

The  Deacon's  Christmas  Dance       .  13 

The    Dictagraph 19 

Tommy  as  Santa  Claus 21 

Don't  Let  Them  Bury  Me  Deep     .      .  25 

The   Belle   of  the   New  Year     ...  27 

A  Prophecy 33 

A  Valentine  to  Heaven 35 

The  Long  Lent-Tide 37 

The  Firecracker  Boy 41 

Converse  with  August     ..."..  45 

The  Wreck  of  the  Liner 49 

Eagle    and    Aeroplane 59 

The  Sea-Bird  in  Town 63 

Educating   the    Family 69 

In  September 73 

The  Fool  That  Drops  the  Match     .      .  75 

Conqueror,  and  Conquered  ....  77 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Learning   Rory  O'More     .      .      .      .      .  .  79 

On  the  Elysian  Fields 85 

O   Where   Will    Be 87 

State's    Evidence 89 

To  the  Last  Mosquitress 91 

To  Dead  Butterflies 93 

Automobilia 95 

The  Welcome— A    Parody     ....  97 

The  Nine  O'Clock  Gun 99 

Disenchanted 103 

October's    Contrast 105 

In   the   Wreckage   of   the   Maine     .      .  107 

Corals,    on    the    Maine 109 

The  Funeral  of  the  Maine     ....  112 

The  Rose's  Lament 114 

The   Kidnapped  Boy's  Prayer     .      .      .  119 

The    Stingless    Bee      .      . 125 

In  Mexico 129 

Indian    Summer     ....  131 
The    Coming    of    Greeley     .      .            .133 

Arbutus 137 

Advice  to  Others   ....            .      .  139 

Autumn    Weather 141 


A  Thousand  More  Verses. 


THE   CHRISTMAS   BELLS'   MISSION. 

Sadness     and    Gladness    were    walking 

together, 

As  oft  they  had  done  before: 
Sadness  was  sighing,  and  Gladness  reply- 
ing 

With  jewels  of  laughter  galore. 
"How   on    this   earth   can   you   find   any 

mirth, 

When  sorrow  is  sown  in  your  sight?" 
"How  can  you  sigh,"  was  the  merry  reply, 
"When  all  of  the  world  is  so  bright?" 

Jauntily   swinging,    the    Christmas    bells' 

ringing, 
Came  merrily  sweet  to  the  ear: 


tHQVS4N|)",MORE    VERSES. 


Sadness,  unheeding  despondency's  plead- 
ing, 

Sent  upward  a  sweet  smile  of  cheer. 
But  Gladness  a  tear  dropped,  warm  and 

sincere, 
For   the   pain    that   the    Christ-Martyr 

bore; 
And  each  saw  the  other:    and  Sadness 

and1  Gladness 

Twined  arms,   and  were   friends  ever- 
more. 


10 


NEW   YEAR   AND   OLD  YEAR. 


NEW   YEAR   AND    OLD   YEAR. 

Said  New  Year  to  Old  Year, 

"Of  all  you  are  bereft." 
Said  Old  Year  to  New  Year, 

"I  still  have  mem'ries  left." 
Said  New  Year  to  Old  Year, 

"What  rank  you  all  above?" 
Said  Old  Year  to  New  Year, 

"The  friends  I  loved  and  love." 


11 


Dancing,  done  rightly,  is  an  attractive  ana 
healthful  custom.  Who  does  not  love  to  see 
a  group  of  children  engaged  in  this  beautiful 
and  innocent  sport? 

But  when  the  amusement  is  employed  to 
plant  vile  seeds  of  passion  that  may  soon 
spring  into  plants  of  shame  and  woe,  the  com- 
mon decency  of  a  nation  must  regulate  it 
and  restrain  it,  if  that  nation  wishes  to  live. 

If  all  the  dances  could  boast  of  as  happy 
and  beneficial  a  termination  as  the  one  rudely 
described  as  occurring  in  the  "Heathen  Na- 
tion," there  would  be  no  supervision  or  re- 
straint necessary. 


THE  DEACON'S  CHRISTMAS  DANCE. 


THE  DEACON'S  CHRISTMAS  DANCE. 

Brother,  do  you  recollect,  in  some  spiritu- 

ual  vacation, 
Of  the  Christmas  night  we  spent,  over  in 

the  "Heathen  Nation"? 
(That  was  what  our  people  called  it,  since 

it  hadn't  the  same  appe>arin' 
As  a  place  that  antedated  it  a  dozen  years 

in  clearin'). 
[So  said  Ahab  Adams,   banker — owning 

holdings  few  could  purchase, 
To  his  brother,  leading  pastor  'mongst  a 

hundred  city  churches.] 

<•?• 

Those  hard  times  out  in  the  wood-lots — 
how  as  boys  we  used  to  pass  ''em! 

Not  a  person  went  ag'in  us,  but  we  had 
the  words  to  sass  'em ! 

'Ceptin'  Dad  and  Mother:   Dad  held  with- 
in the  voice  ingredients 
13 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

That   could   close   the   dictionary   on   all 

words  except  obedience. 
And  amongst  the   other  orders  this  one 

through  my  memory  glances: 
"Whatsoever  else  you  do,  don't  you  go 

to  any  dances!" 

Christmas  came — we  'tended  church; 
learned  once  more  that  we  was  sin- 
ners; 

Had  a  mother-meal  at  home — food  enough 
for  fifteen  dinners; 

Fed  the  horses,  stalled  the  cattle,  soothed 
small  pains  that  shot  across  us, 

An'  went  up  to  bed  at  nine,  by  the  clock 
that  helped  to  boss  us. 

Then  I  recollect  you,  brother — my!  who 

now  would  ever  think  it! 
Whispered,  "Youth  is  full  of  syrup:    let 

us  go  and  help  to  drink  it!" 
Then  we  sneaked  out  of  the  window — 

still  as  chaos  'fore  creation— 
Startin'  for  a  Christmas  dance — over  in 

the  "Heathen  Nation." 
14 


THE   DEACON  S   CHRISTMAS   DANCE. 

Mercy!  didn't  it  make  a  flutter,  when  the 

people  saw  appearin' 
Four  strong  husky  yoqthful    Christians, 

come  from  Deacon  Adams'  clearin' ! 
Still  those  sinners — not  disposed  to  wast- 

in'  time  with  small  surprises, 
Didn't  let  us   interfere   with   the   reg'lar 

exercises : 
They  rushed  to  us  good  an'  hearty — not 

as  brands  plucked  from  the  burnin' 
But    as    Deacon    Adams'    pris'ners    from 

cold  storage  now  return  in'. 
An'  the  fiddle — how  it  thrilled  us ! — every 

kind  of  thought  revealin': 
Scoldin',  cryin',  grumblin',  shoutin',  whis- 

p'rin',  singin',  warblin',  squealin'— 
Brother,  have  you  any  wonder,  as  we  read 

those  memory-pages, 
That  we  fellers  went  to  dancin'  jest  as  if 

we  danced  for  wages? 

Was't  a  wonder  that  we  shrunk,  appre- 
hensive 'mid  the  laughter, 
15 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

When  our  straight-browed  father  rushed 

in — havin'  followed  slyly  after? 
Any  wonder  if  the  father,  whan  he  felt 

the  animation 
From  the  heads  and  hearts  and  heels  of 

that  risin'  generation, 
When   he   saw   them   cleanly  dancin'  till 

the  timbers  seemed  to  totter, 
Recollected  youthful  pastimes,  when  his 

blood  was  somewhat  hotter? 
'Special'y  when  a  fair-faced  girl,  with  a 

red  head  like  a  beacon, 
Pranced  up  softly  to  him,  saying,  "Dance 

a  hornpipe  with  me,  Deacon?" 

Is    it    any    wonder    that    he    threw    all 

restraint  aside,  untethered, 
An'   let  loose  a  hundr'd  antics  that   for 

forty  years  he'd  gathered? 
Brother,    don't    you    recollect    how    he 

whirled  an'  jumped  an'  twisted? 
He  showed  them  there  people  capers  that 

they  didn't  know  existed. 
16 


THE  DEACON'S  CHRISTMAS  DANCE. 

An'  he  murmured  unto  me,  in  the  red-hot 

of  the  revel, 
"David  danced  before  the  Lord — I  will 

try  it  on  the  devil!" 

Everybody  on   the  job  cheered  our  Dad 

like  all  creation: 
He    was    soon    the    crackerjack    of    the 

whole  dumbed  Heathen  Nation! 

But  remember  our  surprise  an'  the  laughs 

that  jumped  around  us, 
When  our  dear  old  mother  entered — hav- 

in'  missed  an'  chased  an'  found  us! 
But  she  al'ays  had  some  fun  layin'  round 

with  her  religion: 
An'  her  toes  took  wings  forthwith,  that 

would  give  points  to  a  pigeon! 
She  eclipsed  the  red-head  gal — took  the 

cake  without  much  bother, 
Miakin'  folks  around  there  love  her — even 

more  than  they  did  father. 
Well,  I  guess  you'll  hev  to  own  it,  that 

'ere  fast  night  was  a  sprinter! 
17 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

And  the  sort  of  genial  climate  that  you 
don't  get  every  winter! 

That  was  Dad's  an'  Mom's  last  dancin': 

but  they  brewed  such  admiration, 
That  their  influence  never  died  in  that 

wicked  Heathen  Nation: 
An'  you   recollect,   when   Dad   a  revival 

there  inserted, 
More  than  half  the  folks  that  lived  near, 

swung  right  in  an'  got  converted. 
Then  you  says — ''In  cornerin'  sinners,  do 

not  feel  too  much  above  'em: 
Kind  of  make  'em  understand  that,  like 

David,  you're  one  of  'em." 


18 


THE   DICTAGRAPH. 


THE   DICTAGRAPH. 

"It  can  be  placed  in  almost  any  room,  ivlth- 
oiit  the  occupant's  knowledge." 

Dictagraph — dictagraph — 
You  will  make  some  people  laugh, 
You  will  make  more  people  weep, 
When  around  their  words  you  creep. 
Was  there  ev!er,  far  or  nigh, 
Such  a  shrewd  and  subtle  spy? 
Lovers,  you  have  long  forbidden 
Small  boys  under  sofas  hidden, 
But  you  now  will  soon  condemn 
Something  that  will  discount  them. 
Guests  that  throng  the  big  hotel, 
Watch  its  nooks  and  crannies  well; 
Talk  not  of  your  own  affairs — 
Listeners  may  be  down-stairs. 
Counseling  villains,  low  and  high, 
Keep  a  lookout  for  the  spy; 
If  you  have  not  done  so  yet, 
Learn  the  deaf-dumb  alphabet. 
19 


Just  before  the  child  happens  in  some  way 
or  other  to  lose  the  sweet  and  winsome  Santa 
Claus  superstition,  he  is  a  wonderfully  inter- 
esting study,  in  his  combination  of  the  actual 
and  the  legendary.  The  Santa  Claus  story  is 
one  that  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die. 

Whether  the  enterprising  little  fellow  rep- 
resented as  indulging  in  the  following  reflec- 
tions, knows  the  whole  truth,  in  Santa  Claus 
lore,  or  a  part  of  it,  or  none  of  it,  may  be 
left  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader^— who 
probably  can  remember  at  about  what  time 
he  himself  (or  she  herself)  learned  the  real 
state  of  such  matters.  Of  course  we  all  wish 
it  were  true. 


TOMMY    AS    SANTA    GLAUS. 


TOMMY  AS  SANTA-  GLAUS. 

Ef  I  was  only  Santa  Glaus 

A  Christmas  eve  all  through, 
On  your  tin-type  I'd  show  you  what 

A  five-year  old  could  do! 
They  say  that  boys  is  smarter  now, 

Than,  former  fav'rita  sons— 
I  ruther  judge  that  that  perhaps 

Depends  upon  the  ones: 
But  anyway  I  think  I  know 

How  dif  rent  it  would  be, 
Ef  I  was  only  Santa  Glaus, 

An'  Santa  Glaus  was  me! 

I  wouldn't  have  no  deers  nor  sleds — 
Them's  happened  long  enough : 

I'd  build  an  air-ship  big  an'  deep 
To  carry  lots  of  stuff; 

An'  Jack  could  run  one — so  he  says  — 
An'  he's  the  one  ter  know — 
21 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

An'  then  at  nine  p.  m.  I'd  up 
An'  yell  out  "Let  her  go!" 

An'  we  could  take  ten  times  as  much 
As  if  we  had  a  sled, 

An'  use  a  wireless  telegraph, 
An'  order  goods  ahead. 

No  chimney-stunts  for  mine!    I'd  have 

To  go  along  with  me, 
A  good  converted  burglar,  that 

Could  pick  the  locks,  you  see: 
An'  then  I'd  crawl  up  to  the  kids, 

An'  use  my  new  flash  light, 
An'  look  their  faces  o'er  an'  see 

What  gifts  would  hit  'em  right; 
An'  then  I'd  wish  that  I  could  watch 

An'  see  their  wake-up  joys, 
An'  give  'bout  twice  as  much  to  girls 

As  what  I  would  to  boys; 

An'  I  don't  b'lieve  I'd  call  upon 

The  richest  chil'ren  first; 
I'd  go  among  the  tots  I  thought 

Was  needin'  me  the  worst. 
22 


TOMMY    AS    SANTA    GLAUS. 

I'd  say  these  gilt-edged  kids  has  pops 

To  buy  their  Chris'mas  stuff, 
Though  I'll  leave  somethin'  to  piece  out, 

If  they  don't  git  enough; 
But  most  of  all  the  traps  shall  go 

In  stockins  coarse,  I'd  say: 
I'd  bust  'em  all!    an'  leave  more  socks 

To  start  'em  in  next  day  . 

Then  there's  some  folks,  I've  heard,  so  old 

That  kids  again  they  be: 
They'd  all  git  somethin'  took  to  'em, 

If  Santa  Glaus  was  me. 
I'd  make  'em  think  of  good  old  times 

When  friends  that  they  had  got, 
Would  give  'em  things  no  matter  if 

'Twas  Chris'mas  day  or  not. 
I'd  sure  have  somethin'  they  would  need 

Ol'-fashioned,  but  first-rate: 
Twould  be  a  good  chance  to  close  out 

Things  not  quite  up  to  date. 

An'  then  I'd  go  to  him  himself: 
An'  wake  him  up,  an'  say, 
23 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

"Dear  Santa   Glaus   you've  made   more 
bright 

Full  many  a  Christmas  day! 
I've  brought  a  present  here  I  hope 

You'll  take  from,  me  all  right; 
It's  just  a  kiss — like  I  give  Pop 

When  he  comes  home  at  night. 
An'  I  shall  pray,  when  I  get  back, 

That  you  will  prosp'rous  be, 
An'  buy  an  airship  of  your  own, 

An'  always  send  for  me." 


24 


DON'T    LET    THEM    BURY    ME    DEEP. 


DON'T  LET  THEM  BURY  ME  DEEP. 

(One  Little  Girl's  Last  Words.) 

Lift  me  a  bit  in  my  bed,  father, 

Press  your  warm  lip  to  my  cheek, 
Put  your  arms  under  my  head,  father, 

I  am  so  tired  and  so  weak! 
I  cannot  stay  long  awake,  now — 

Many  a  night  I  shall  sleep  !— 
Promise  one  thing  for  my  sake,  now — 

Don't  let  them  bury  me  deep ! 

Look!  who  has  come  for  me  now,  father, 

Standing  so  near  to  my  bed? 
Some  one  is  kissing  my  brow,  father, 

Mother,  I  thought  you  were  dead! 
See!  she  is  smiling  so  bright  to  you, 

Motions  to  us  not  to  weep ! 
Tis  not  "good-bye"  but  "good-night"  to 
you, 

They  cannot  bury  me  deep ! 
25 


The  first  railroad-trains  were  interesting 
but  prosaic  affairs.  The  locomotive  was  a 
rude  boiler  with  a  primitive  smokestack  at 
one  end,  and  a  woodbox  at  the  other — all 
traveling  at  a  moderate  pace,  on  a  track  of 
wooden  rails.  The  cars  were  mere  stage- 
coaches tied  to  each  other.  There  was  much 
interest  in  the  enterprise,  but  no  sentiment. 

Now,  there  is  a  most  wonderful  change  in 
that  respect,  as  in  others.  The  railroad  is 
as  full  of  romance  and  sentiment,  as  is  the 
ocean.  The  locomotive  is  often  the  sweet- 
heart of  the  driver.  The  guild  of  railroad- 
toilers  has  its  loves,  its  hates,  its  fancies, 
its  superstitions.  Ghosts  are  not  uncom- 
monly seen  by  railroad  folk,  or  their  fancies. 
Legends  abound  among  them,  full  of  senti- 
ment. 


THE   BELLE   OF   THE   NEW   YEAR. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

(Veteran  Engine-driver's  Story.) 

Oh,    no!    I'm    not    toiling   on    railroads, 

although  I  wasn't  built  for  to  shirk: 
I  just  limp  around  in  the  shops,  here,  and 

criticise  other  folks'  work. 
And  there's  plenty  more  classy  can  do 

that  and  haven't  got  my  chance  to 

explain 
And  never  went  down  an  embankment, 

along  with  <an  engine  or  train. 

Twas  on  a  bright  morning — the  New  Year 

of  Eighteen  and  eighty,  and  one: 
The  Boss  of  our  shop  says,  "An  engine 

blue-blooded  as  sin,  is  just  done: 
And  who  shall  we  get  for  to  drive  her, 

that's  shown  he  can  dare  and  can  do  ? 
My  Boss  says  his  Boss  says  the  honor  is 

mostly  pertainin'  to  you. 
27 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

"You  take  her,  and  court  her,  and  keep 

her,  as  long,  let  it  be  understood, 
As  you  two  can  manage  together,  and  do 

what  we  call  'making  good'; 
And  don't  fret  her  too  much  at  starting — 

an  engine's  a  woman,  you  know; 
The  more  that  you  study  her  temper,  the 

better  at  last  she  will  go. 

'This  here  is  a  love-child :  there's  people 
that  works  in  the  place,  don't  for- 
get, 

Put  part  of  their  souls  in  her  make-up,  to 
have  her  the  niftiest  yet. 

And  when  they  do  that  for  an  engine,  the 
fact  is  close-guessed,  if  not  known, 

That  they  pile  up  a  sort  of  prescription, 
that  gives  her  a  soul  of  her  own.", 

I  went  in  there  where  she  was  standing; 
I  looked  for  first  time  in  her  eyes, 

The  boys,  they  had  kept  her  in  cover,  God 
bless  'em,  their  friend  to  surprise; 

And  if  there  was  ever  an  engine  that  mor- 
tals an  angel  might  call, 
28 


THE    BELLE   OF    THE   NEW    YEAR. 

'Twas  her  that  stood  there  'mongst  the 
others — the  certified  Queen  of  them 
all. 

I    said    "Shall    we    travel    together,   my 

Beauty?"   ('twas  foolish,  I  guess) 
But  out  of  her  glorious  splendor,  I  thought 

that  she  smiled  me  a  "Yes"; 
Her  picture  was  taken,  in  grand  size ;  that 

night,  to  the  big  dance  it  came: 
I    christened    her    "Belle    of    the    New 

Year" — and  that  was  thereafter  her 

name. 

My  best  girl,  she  almost  grew  jealous:  she 
says,  with  her  dear  little  pout, 

"You'd  better  go  marry  this  wonder  you're 
thinking  and  raving  about: 

I  wish  she'd  get  smashed!"  then  a  mo- 
ment, her  face  was  like  snow  to  the 
view : 

And  she  clasped  my  hand,  saying,  "Forget 
it!  for  that  would  perhaps  murder 
your 

29 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Well,  Belle  and  I  journeyed  together,  two 

years,  through  the  storm  and  the  sun, 
With  a  love  which  is — what  is  the  word 

for't?  "Platonic",  I  think  is  the  one; 
And  she  learned  to  talk  back  to  me  often: 

she  knew  how  to  laugh  and  be  sad, 
And  to  sulk,  and  to  give  me  my  lesson, 

when  things  veered  a  bit  to  the  bad. 

But  never  was  schedules  filled  sleeker,  or 

passengers  treated  more  grand, 
Than  they  was  by  the  "Belle  of  the  New 

Year"  with  me  holding  fast  to  her 

hand; 
And   never   was    confidence   closer,    that 

more  and  more  steadfastly  grew, 
Than  that  which  gained  slowly  and  surely, 

and  then  made  its  home  with' us  two. 

Still,  life  has  its  curves  unexpected,  and 
bridges  to  trap  you  and  me; 

And  that  was  a  terrible  winter — of  eigh- 
teen and  eighty  and  three: 

Two  years  we  had  been  the  star-sprinters, 
in  sunshine,  and  starlight,  and  shade, 
30 


THE   BELLE   OF   THE   NEW   YEAR. 

And  compliments  gemmed  us  like  roses, 
'most  all  of  the  journeys  we  made. 

And  that  night,  we  scrapped  with  a 
blizzard,  that  evertything  ugly  con- 
tained! 

But  the  "Belle  of  the  New  Year"  kept 
working,  and  never  on-e  second  com- 
plained ; 

Not  an  inch  could  we  see  from  the  pilot; 
but  still  we  was  bound  to  "make 
good"; 

And  work  to  our  time-card  as  nearly  as, 
battling  that  snow-storm,  we  could. 

"Keep  up  to  your  best,  my  brave  beauty!" 

I    yelled,  and    believed    she    could 

hear, 
"It  isn't  very  far  to  the  term'nus — the  rest 

and  the  shelter  are  near." 
But  a  broken  rail — sneak-thief  of  safety! 

—the    Belle    drew    a    long    wailing 

breath, 
Then  fell  on  her  side,  and  went  rolling  a 

hundred  feet  down  to  her  death. 
31 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

She.  bravely    wrenched    free    from    the 

coaches — the  passengers  stayed  safe 

and  sound, 
The  fireman  jumped  into  the  darkness — 

we  buried  him  when  he  was  found; 
But   the   Belle   wrapped   her   dear   arms 

around  me,  as  together  we  made  the 

grim  dive; 
And  my  best  girl  came  next  day  there  and 

found  me — all  crippled,  and  bruised 

—but  alive. 

We  buried  the  Belle  in  a  garden:    'twas 

sentiment,  maybe  you'll  say, 
But  what  are  the  goods  of  life  good  for,  if 

one  blocks  the  heart's  right  of  way? 
I  built  up  a  monument  o'er  her,  and  oft 

my  best  girl — now  my  wife — 
Strews  flowers  o'er  the  Belle  of  the  New 

Year,  and  thanks  her  for  saving  my 

life. 


32 


A    PROPHECY. 


A  PROPHECY. 

Have  you  seen  the  balloon  vieing 
With  the  lofty  clouds  in  flying? 
Or  the  aeroplane's  resistance 
To  the  tyrannies  of  distance? 
How  those  hardy,  fearless  rangers 
Grope  their  paths  through  deadly  dangers! 
How  their  mother  Earth  oft  maims  them, 
When,  at  times  she  rudely  claims  them! 
Or,  in  bonds  no  power  can  sever, 
Clasps  them  to  her  heart  forever! 
Low  beneath  the  sad  winds'  sighing, 
Scores  of  them  are  meekly  lying — 
They  who  sped  through  many  a  nation, 
O'er  applause  and  admration. 
But  time  comes,  when  thousands  gaily 
Those  grand  heights  will  traverse  daily. 


33 


This  poem  was  read  at  a  "Valentine  Break- 
fast" in  New  York.  Among  the  many  that 
were  presented  there,  it  was  mentioned  as 
the  only  sad  one. 

And  yet,  the  fact  was  excused,  and  kind 
words  came  from  all  parts  of  the  spacious 
hall  of  feasting:  for  it  was  known  that  the 
author  had  very  recently  sustained  one  of 
the  most  terrible  losses  in  the  world,  and 
there  were  not  a  few  present,  who  knew  by 
experience  what  that  meant. 


A  VALENTINE  TO    HEAVEN. 


A  VALENTINE  TO  HEAVEN. 

I  know  not  how  these  lines  to  send, 

Dear  soul  that  took  the  starward  flight — 
And  yet  our  Past  a  hope  doth  lend 

That  thou  canst  read  me  as  I  write. 
And  if  not  so,  thou  yet  wilt  know 

These  whispers  that  are  thine  and  mine : 
For  God  hath  ways  to  make  it  so— 

And  thou  shalt  be  my  valentine. 


But  if  by  some  good  messenger 

This   word    must    seek    thy    cherished 

name, 
Thy  heart,  I  hope,  will  yet  infer 

Wherefrom  the  earthly  message  came: 
Some  little  ways  of  thought  or  phrase — 

Some  hidden  thrill  'twixt  line  and  line, 
That  we  two  knew  in  olden  days — 

Will  tell  who  wrote  the  valentine. 
35 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Sweet  one,  they  cannot  make  me  fear 

That  stately  Heaven  can  check  thy  glee, 
Or  bar  me  from  the  comrade-cheer 

That  made  the  earth  like  Heaven  to  me! 
For  e'en  amid  thy  toil  to  rid 

Of  pain  and  sin  our  suff'ring  race, 
Oft  came  th3  merry  laugh  unhid, 

That  never  lost  its  girlhood-grace. 

So  "while  the  silver  jest  goes  round, 

And  while  the  air  gives  gold  of  mirth, 
I  feel  thy  haart  may  yet  be  found 

Among  the  merriments  of  earth. 
Heaven  were  a  task,  could  I  not  bask 

Within  that  merry  glance  of  thine: 
And  so,  'twixt  smilq  and  tear,  I  ask 

Thee,  Dear,  to  be  my  Valentine! 


36 


THE    LONG    LENT-TIDE. 


THE  LONG  LENT-TIDE. 

She   sat   in   the   parlor,   a   maiden   once 

more— 

Uncrimped,    and    unrouged,    and    un- 
gloved : 
But  her  sweet  face  a   frown  of  anxiety 

wore, 

As  she  gazed  at  the  man  that  she  loved. 
"Oh  what  can  I  do  to  my  soul  to  be  true?" 

She  was  murmuring,  over  and  o'er, 
"So's   to   suffer    in   ways    for   the    dear 

Lenten  days, 
That  I  never  have  suffered  before? 

"I    have    banished   the   sweetmeats   that 

shortened  the  day — 
All  the  gems  of  the  palate  I  shun: 
And  my  pearls  and  my  diamonds  cower 

away, 

From  the  light  of  the  lamps  and  the 
sun. 

37 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

And  the  thrill-haunted  halls  and  the  plays 

and  the  balls 

And  the  opera's  voices  of  flame, 
Are  as  nothing  to  me:    or  at  most  they 

must  be 

On    the    doubly-locked    door,    just    a 
name ! 

But   I    do   not   as  yet   feel   that  I   have 

attained 

What  the  spirit  of  sacrifice  meant; 
That  my  soul  in  its  fights  with  my  body 

has  gained 

All  the  discipline  offered  by  Lent. 
I   depend  upon  you:  tell  me  something 

to  do 

That  of  sacrifice  true  is  a  part!" — 
Twas  the  maiden's  request,  of  the  man 

she  loved  best, 

And   the   one  she   had  robbed   of  his 
heart. 

Then  he  smiling  said,  'That  which  you 

love  best,  my  dear, 
Excepting  your  family  ties, 
38 


THE    LONG    LENT-TIDE. 

You   should   fling   from  your  life   for  a 

week  and  a  year, 

if  on  wings  of  the  soul  you  would  rise." 
And  she  said,  'That  is  YOU  !   and  'tis  only 

my  due, 

That  you  go,  till  the  sad  time  is  spent! 
If  you  love  me,  dear,  now  help  me  keep 

the   strange   vow!" 

And  with  heart  bowed  in  sadness,  he 
went. 


39 


Upon  Thomas  Jefferson's  venerable  head 
are  heaped  the  praise  and  the  blame  of  our 
Fourth-of-July  tumult  and  racket.  He  it 
was  who  first  suggested  that  firecrackers 
should  be  burned,  cannon  fired,  and  pyro- 
technics let  loose  on  the  anniversary  of 
our  nation's  birth.  Perhaps  he  regretted  it, 
when  he  grew  old  and  infirm. 

The  recent  reforms  in  that  respect  are  no 
doubt  best  for  the  public  good:  the  "Safe 
and  Sane  Fourth"  is  spreading — to  the 
nation's  benefit  and  the  surgeon's  loss. 

But  no  one  can  help  sympathizing  with 
the  poor  urchin,  one  of  whose  most  delicious 
luxuries  of  life  is3  to  make  a  noise. 


THE    FIRECRACKER    BOY. 


THE  FIRECRACKER  BOY. 

On  the  steps  of  a  house,  still  and  sad  as  a 

mouse 

With  no  goods  to  destroy, 
Unreservedly  pained  at  the  stillness  that 

reigned, 

Sat  the  firecracker  boy. 
'There  is  nothin'  to  do,  all  this  Fourth 

o'J'ly  through," 
He  said,  glancing  around : 
"There  is  no  proper  way  for  to  work  or 

to  play, 

If  you  can't  make  no  sound! 
You  can  set  in  deep  thought  how  George 

Wash'ton  once  fought, 
An'  didn't  never  tell  lies; 
An'    how    he — an'    some    more — waded 

knee-deep  in  gore, 
Almost  up  to  their  eyes; 
41 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

You  can  say  'No  one  swipes  any  sparklers 

or  stripes 

From  the  banner  't  means  Us, 
Or  to  give  it  display  in  no  improper  way, 

If  they  don't  want  a  fuss;' 
We  can  tell  how  our  gran'thers  fit  worse 

than  wild  panthers, 
Concernin'  this  flag, 
Which,   in  school,  when  we  studied,  no 

kid  that's  full-blooded, 
Could  help  but  to  brag; 
We  can  sit  an'  say  Vposin'  there  rushed 

any  foes  in 
To  do  us  some  dirt, 
We  would  straighten  up  stiff,  an'  take  part 

in  the  tiff, 

Though  we  went  dead  or  hurt'  • 
We  kin  sit  an'  reflect  in  a  manner  correct, 

Feelin'  Patr'tism's  thrill, 
An'   it's  all  straight  an'  true:    but  what 

good  kin  it  do, 
Ef  we've  got  to  keep  still? 

"An'  these  folks  that  forbid  us  to  lift  up 
the  lid 

42 


THE   FIRECRACKER   BOY. 

J 

In  the  old-fashioned  way, 
They  can  noise  up  an*  down,  through  the 

country  or  town, 
Ev'ry  night — ev'ry  day; 
An'    their   mob'les,   kin    creak    an'   their 

whistles  kin  speak, 
Sayin'  'Out  of  the  way!' 
An'  we  boys  hev  to  mind  'em,  or  lay  down 

behind  'em, 
Dead,  'fore  we  are  gray. 

"An  the  bands'  horns  can  sing  like  some 

many-voiced  thing, 
An'  the  drummers  kin  pound, 
An'   there's  no   one    I   see  'cept  us  men 

that's  to  be, 
Re'lly  stinted  in  sound ; 
An'  the  day  it  is  free,  jest  as  fur's  I  kin 

see, 

In  the  general  joy, 
For  all  hands  to  make  noise — 'ceptin'  only 

jest  boys!" 
Moaned  the  firecracker  boy. 


43 


It  would  be  interesting,  to  some  one  who 
had  nothing  else  to  do,  if  he  would  audit  up 
the  months  of  the  year,  and  of  all  years,  and 
learn  which  had  produced  the  most  distin- 
guished people.  Perhaps  the  result  might 
even  have  a  scientific  value. 

I  happened  to  write  this  in  August,  and 
used  such  material  as  came  to  my  mind:  but 
could  with  a  little  research  and  patience  with 
myself,  have  extended  the  poem  into  several 
pages  more.  And  even  then,  the  record 
might  be  surpassed  by  other  months. 


CONVERSE    WITH    AUGUST. 


CONVERSE    WITH    AUGUST. 

August — August — stormy  or  fair! 
What  do  you  bring  in  your  sultry  air? 
Tender  mornings  and  starlit  skies — 
Golden  clouds  with  the  glad  sunrise; 
Cooling  zephyrs  and  stifling  heats — 
Thunders  rolling  in  lofty  streets; 
Lightning  aiming  at  towers  and  trees — 
Chill  rains  dripping  from  floating  seas. 

August — August — stormy  or  fair! 
What  have  you  seen  men  do  and  dare?- 
Oh,  it  was  on  my  third  bright  day, 
Gallant  Columbus  marked  his  way 
Far  to  the  empire  yet  to  be, 
Out  where  the  sunset  kissed  the  sea: 
He  had  no  nation  when  all  was  done, 
But  he  had  found  a  place  for  one. 

August,  August,  stormy  or  fair, 
When  did  you  give  the  world  despair  ?- 
45 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Once  in  my  midst,  an  August  morn 
Told  that  a  Bonaparte  was  born : 
One  that  would  swim  Ambition's  flood — 
One  that   would  drench  the  earth  with 

blood: 

Y-et  with  his  sword  would  cut  in  twain 
Many  a  petty  tyrant's  chain. 

August,  August,  stormy  or  fair, 

When  did  a  wizard  stroke  your  hair? — 

Once,    when    my    days    were    half    way 

through, 

Came  a  child  from  the  far-off  blue — 
Soon  to  cover  with  laurels  grand, 
All  the  hills  of  his,  fatherland. 
That  was  the  Scottish  Walter  Scott: 
Never  his  name  will  be  forgot! 

August,  August,  stormy  or  fair, 

What  have  you  more  that  is  sweet  and 

rare  ? — 

Millions  of  babies:    born  to  bless 
This  great  land  in  its  comeliness, 
46 


CONVERSE    WITH    AUGUST. 

Or  by  Indolence'  wiles  or  worse, 
Making  their  coming  into  a  curse. 
Will1  their  staying  be  ill,  or  well?— 
God  and  the  world  will  some  time  tell. 


47 


Never  has  a  more  terrible  and  portentous 
ocean- disaster  taken  place.,  than  the  one  a 
thousand  miles  east  of  New  'York,  on  the 
night  of  April  15.  All  classes  of  society 
were  represented  in  this  sea-slaughter;  all 
grades  of  mentality  were  robbed  away  from 
the  earth.  I  say  this  was  portentous,  for  it 
indicated  that  no  ship  could  for  many  years, 
if  ever,  be  built  large  enough  and  strong 
enough  to  be  surely  safe  from  destruction 
from  the  ocean. 


48 


THE   WRECK   OF  THE   LINER. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  LINER. 

The  night  is  a  vision  of  splendor;    the 

stars  hang  in  clusters  on  high; 
The   oft-troubled    ocean    is    resting    and 

smiles  at  her  sister,  the  sky. 
The  storms  that  have  fought  through  the 

winter    from   battle's   confusion   are 

free; 
And   only   the   children    of   zephyrs   are 

playing  about  on  the  sea. 
What    more    could   wild    wastes   of   the 

waters    throw    into    a    sweet    silent 

song, 
To'  welcome  the  pilgrims  of  pleasure  that 

traverse  their  regions  along? 
What   less   could   they   do   in   that   star- 
light   so    strangely    unclouded    and 

bright, 
To  guard  'gainst  the  traps  that  are  waiting 

to  plunge  a  whole  world  into  night? 
49 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Here  glows  on  this  sea's  mottled  surface 

a  mammoth  of  beauty  and  grace: 
This  is  not  a  ship,  but  a  palace,  that  flits 

through  the  regions  of  space! 
It  carries  in  untold  abundance  all  things 

that  the  fancy  can  please — 
Few  kings  in  this  world  ever  journey  sur- 
rounded with  splendors  like  these. 
No  wish  and  no  whim  but  is  granted  from 

only  a  gesture  or  word, 
If  also  the  yellow  disc's  rattle,  or  rustling 

of  bank-notes  be  heard. 
The  rest-rooms  are  lavish  and  stately;  the 

banquet-halls  silver-and-white ; 
The  couches  that  nourish  the  slumbers, 

.    are  beautiful  nests  of  delight. 
And  all  of  this  grandeur  seems  saying,  in 

words  at  the  deep  waters*  cast, 
"Row  low  to  proud  man,  ancient  Ocean! 

—your    terrors    are     conquered    at 

last!" 

What  names  does  this  argosy  carry: — the 
paltry? — the  mean? — the  unknown? 
50 


THE   WRECK   OF   THE    LINER. 

Or  such  as  the  world  has  already  through 

many  vast  distances  thrown? 
It    carries    a    true    Peace    Apostle,    who 

fought  his  way  up  toward  the  sun, 
And,  scanning  two  worlds,  conjured  mar- 

velsi  in  helping  the  uplift  of  one; 
It  carries  a  capital's  idol — a  boon  to  a 

President's  sight — 
Because  he  is  not  upon  one  day,  but  all. 

days,  a  chivalrous  knight; 
It  carries  some  makers  of  fortunes,  some 

rulers  of  monies  and  marts, 
Who    keep    their    great    riches    in    wide 

hands,  and  not  in  the  depths  of  their 

hearts ; 
It  carries  the  pure  souls  of  women  whom 

angels:  are  watching  tonight, 
And  who  in  the  hour  when  earth  dark- 
ens, will  make  even   Heaven  more 

bright : 
It  carries  its  fugitive  hundreds,  who   in 

their  own  homes  were  oppressed, 
But  now  grand   air-castles  are  building, 

away  in  the  glittering  West; 
51 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

It  carries  the  day-by-day  toiler,  who  all 
of  his  muscle  must  give, 

For  prosperous  mortals'  permission  that 
he  and  his  loved  ones  may  live; 

But  all  are  to  learn  the  great  lesson— 
they  long  should  have  known,  pru- 
dence deems — 

That  man  cannot  conquer  the  oceans, 
except  in  illusory  dreams. 

O  ship-chiefs!  the  world  has  two  oceans! 

— the  one  to  your  efforts  gives  way — 
The  other   is   frozen   to   mountains  that 

trap  you  for  many  a  day. 
Just  now  watchful  men  through  the  ether 

flashed  tidings  of  woe  in  your  path: 
Why  rush  at  the  half-hidden  monsters,  as 

if  you  were  seeking  their  wrath? 
Though  you   for  the   coining  of  money 

your  own  lives  to  venture  are  prone, 
What  right  have  you  over  these  thousands 

who  lent  you  the  care  of  their  own? 

O  ship-chiefs,  your  ways  are  mysterious: 
they  give  your  long  training  the  lie; 

52 


THE    WRECK   OF   THE    LINER. 


What  mandate  has  told  you  to  hasten,  with 
murderous  danger  so  nigh? 

Have  you  not,  when  peril  was  frowning, 
or  welcome  security  smiled, 

Been  taught  the  great  axiom  that  caution 
and  safety  are  parent  and  child? 

The  ship  races  on:    its  vast  regions  are 

flooded  with  billows  of  light; 
Till,  wearied  with  even  the  good  cheer, 

some  sojourners  welcome  the  night, 
While  others  still  cling  to   their  revels, 

and  plunging  in  pleasure  more  deep, 
Look  forward  as  oft  in  the  home  life,  for 

small  hours  to  soothe  them  asleep. 
But  many   a  grave  man  has  handed  to 

darkness  the  care  of  his  cares, 
And    many    a    child    has    seen    Heaven 

through  clear  unstained  windows  of 

prayers, 
And   many    a   woman    o'er-wearied,   the 

sojourn  of  Morpheus  has  blessed, 
So  she  to  the  dictums  of  fashion  can  fling 

some  defiance,  and  rest; 
53 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

But  all  look  ahead  to  one  morning  when, 
nearing  the  spires  and  the  domes, 

They  leave  with  new  feelings  of  freedom, 
this  grand  floating  home,  for  their 
homes. 

What  craft  looms  upon  the  horizon,  with 
chilling  and  ominous  breath? 

It  sailed  from  white  deserts  of  North 
Land — it  carries  a  cargo  of  death. 

It  needs  not  of  chart  or  of  compass:  it 
wrecks  not  of  grief  or  of  pain; 

It  spares  not  the  dead  or  the  living — it 
counts  not  the  lists  of  its  slain. 

O  watchman  be  keen  to  your  duty !  These 
moments  are;  treasures  untold! 

For  time  at  a  stress  has  a  value  not  reck- 
oned in  silver  or  gold. 

O  man  you  have  thrown  a  defiance  at  all 
that  destruction  can  do, 

Your  brothers  and  sisters  are  praying  the 
boasts  of  your  prowess  be  true! 

O  tranquil  but  pitiless  ocean !  your  cruel- 
est  storm-clouds  are  nought 
54 


THE    WRECK   OF   THE    LINER. 

To  this  starlit  evening  that  flashes  on  ice- 
mantled  graves  dearly  bought! 

This  fair  night  will  hear  moans  of  anguish 
that  soon  must  encompass  the  world: 

Not  tossed,  this  vast  home  on  the  waters, 
'gainst  billows  tumultuously  hurled, 

But  steadily  cov'ring  the  false  hopes  of 
frighted  humanity  o'er, 

The  ship  from  its  flight  o'er  the  billows 
must  fall  to  the  sea's  solemn  floor. 

Nought,  nought  but  the  heart  can  e'r  pic- 
ture the  agonies  known  and  un- 
known, 

That  throng  through  the  night's  desolation, 
with  horrors  unspeakable  strown: 

The  wrenching  from  halls  of  the  banquet, 
to  roofs  of  the  desolate  wave; 

The  wearisome  watching  for  rescue,  to 
come  from  the  far-distant  brave; 

The  crushing  of  new-made  devices  that 
serve  not  to  save,  but  to  kill, 

The  life-boats  that  turn  into  death-boats, 

for  lacking  of  seamanship  skill; 

55 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

The   hurried  and  agonized  partings  that 

come  with  this  terrible  doom, 
And  shroud  the  sweet  love  of  a  lifetime 

by  changing  the  sea  to  a  tomb; 
The  cry  of  the  child  for  its  parent,  the 

wife's  and  the  husband's  vain  call, 
The  prayers  of  the  righteous  invoking  the 

aid  of  the  Father  of  all; 
The  fragile  flotillas  with  women  too  brave 

their  own  sorrow  to  tell, 
Like  slaves  at  the  galley-oars  toiling,  still 

hoping  that  all  will  be  well; 
The  grief  of  the  half-thousand  toilers  who, 

prisoned  with  clinging  bolts  nigh, 
Have  nought  they  can   do   for  escaping 

except  in  that  prison  to  die; 
The  tremulous  strains  of  musicians,  who, 

just  from  the  pleasure-hall's  glare, 
Creep    "Nearer   to   God",   when   around 

them    are    dancing    the    ghosts    of 

despair ; 
The  cries  of  the  maimed  and  the  dying, 

who    languish    o'er    death-beds    of 

waves, 

56 


THE    WRECK   OF    THE    LINER. 

On  ruins  of  yesterday's  splendor  that 
soon  are  tQ  dig  them  their  graves; 

O  great  God!  You  saw  all  this  anguish, 
You  deemed  it  was  best  to  be  so : 

But  all  for  the  best  is  intended:  You 
know  what  we  never  can  know. 


57 


The  birds  that  have  travelled  so  long 
between  the  unfeathered  races  and  the  sky, 
cannot  understand  the  balloon  and  the  aero- 
plane. The  smaller  ones  give  these  formid- 
able-looking engines  of  the  air  a  wide  berth,, 
while  the  larger  and  more  powerful  ones, 
sometimes  attack  them  and  their  occupants. 

As  the  science  of  Aviation  continues  to 
make  progress,  birds  of  all  sizes  will  no 
doubt  learn  to  get  out  of  the  way  as  soon  as 
they  can,  when  they  view  an  air-craft  ap- 
proaching: and  we  may  yet  see  bird-hunts 
from  aeroplanes  or  dirigibles,  as  one  of  the 
approved  sports  of  the  day. 


EAGLE   AND   AEROPLANE. 


EAGLE  AND  AEROPLANE. 

Who  are  you,  speeding  along  this  way 

Above  my  head? 
Why  do  you  come  to  the  clouds  today? 

The  eagle  said. 

Had  you  not  heard  that  pathways  high 
Only  were  made  for  such  as  I  ? 
Did  you  not  know  that  from  your  birth, 
You  were  appointed  to  walk  the  earth? 
Do  as  you  long  were  wont  to  do: 
Stab    my    mountains    and    creep    them 

through ; 

Swim  your  rivers  or  bridge  them  o'er; 
Ferry  the  seas  from  shore  to  shore; 
Plunge  through  halls  of  a  starless  deep, 
Where  the  hosts  of  the  tempests  sleep 

And  count  their  dead; 
But  you  were  made  not,  as  was  I, 
On  the  wings  of  the  winds  to  fly! 

The  eagle  said. 

59 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

What  in  my  country  do  you  seek? 

What  is  of  wealth  on  the  mountain  peak? 

Which  of  the  gems  has  it  begot? 

Where  is  its  gold,  excepting  what 
The  sun  has  shed, 

You  who  squander  the  hoards  you  save — 

Haughty  slaves  of  the  "yellow  slave"? 
The  Eagle  said. 

Dig  in  the  earth  for  earth  that  buys: 

Clutch  with  your  greedy  hands  and  eyes, 

What,  if  it  win  your  poor  heart,  will 

Serve  but  to  make  you  greedier  still- 
By  food  unfed; 

What  do  you  care  for  the  sky  above 

Mors  than  to  aid  your  own  self-love? 
The  eagle  said. 

Even  your  daring  flight  today— 

So  the  gossiping  birdlets  say, 
With  gold  is  wed: 

You,  a  hero  of  skies,  indeed ! 

Back  to  your  stony  dens  of  greed, 
By  avarice  fed! 

Then  did  the  bird,  with  beak  and  wing, 
60 


EAGLE   AND  AEROPLANE. 

Straight    at    the    throat    of    the    airman 

spring, 

Looking  a  rage  he  could  not  speak, 
Tearing  away  with  claws  and  beak. 
But  from  the  bold  intruder  came 
Five  sharp  volleys  of  blinding  flame, 

And  piercing  lead: 
Symbol  of  heroism,  beware! 
Doff  the  emperorship  of  air! 

The  echoes  said. 

Maimed    and    bleeding,    and    sick    with 

hate, 
Fluttered    the    bird    to    his    fierce-eyed 

mate, 

Where,  on  a  ragged  rock  and  gray, 
She  with  her  callow  fledgelings  lay. 
Do  not  again  such  conflict  dare, 
Screamed  this  lioness  of  the  air: 
Men  will  yet  journey  here  in  crowds : 
You  are  no  more  the  King  of  Clouds. 
Man  is  the  only  mortal  who 
Whate'er  he  wills  to  do,  will  do. 
Though  he  be  wayward  oft,  and  wild, 
61 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Still  he  is  God's  own  well-loved  child- 

From  angels  bred: 
If  he  will  only  do  and  dare, 
He  can  yet  rule  Earth,  Sea,  and  Air! 

The  eagless  said. 


62 


THE    SEA-BIRD    IN    TOWN. 


THE  SEA-BIRD   IN   TOWN. 

Look  upward!  the  sea-bird  is  coming  to 

town ! 
He  has  left  his  wide  home  floored  with 

billows  of  blue, 
And   is   winging   invisible   paths  up   and 

down, 
O'er  our  river  that  cleaves  the  great 

city  in  two. 

O'er  the  long  wave  that  dashes  to  sea- 
ward each  day, 
Long  miles  toward  the  sunrise;    then 

fights  its  way  back 
Through  oceans  of  men  that  are  flinging 

the  spray 

Of  love  and  of  hate — gifts  and  greed—- 
on their  track. 

From  great  lofty  windows,  proud  mortals 
gaze  where 

63 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

This  eagle-like  bird  spurns  the  roofs  for 

the  air! 
How  he  laughs  and  screams  downward  at 

domes^  and  at  spires! 
How   he   scorns  all   the   goals   of  men's 

deeds  and  desires! 
For  he  heeds  not  the  splendors  beneath 

him — 

Or   clouds   that   with   bays   might   en- 
wreath  him: 
He  thinks  of  the  callow  young  children  at 

home 
At  his  nest  in  the  rocks  where  the  white 

breakers  foam, 
His  children — so  weak  and  so  helpless  are 

they ! 
And  he  dreams  his  way  homeward  still 

clutching  his  prey, 
Dreams  of  miniature  sea-birds  who'll  grasp 

with  delight 
The    treasures   he    brings   from    his    far 

speedy  flight. 

How  his  life  is  a  strife  and  a  play — 
64 


THE    SEA-BIRD    IN    TOWN. 

Bird  spun  from  the  sun  and  the  clay ! 
He  can  float — feathered  boat — on  the 

sea, 
Though   the   waves — restless   graves — 

clamber  free; 

He  can  fly  toward  the  sky  in  his  mirth, 
Though  the   clouds — leaden  shrouds — 

clothe  the  earth; 

He  can  pierce  through  the  fierce  light- 
ning's' glare — 
He  can  sleep   in  the  deep  thund'rous 

air, 
His  mattress  the  spray  and  his  pillow  his 

breast, 
And  the  whole  heaving  ocean  the  couch 

of  his  rest. 

Tis  as  if  a  poor  crushed-down  and  earth- 
burdened  soul 

In  a  prison  of  needs — in  a  tyrant's  con- 
trol— 
Whose   body    away    from   the   spirit  had 

died, 

Had   now   sprung   to   the   freedom   long 
sadly  denied! 
65 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Safe  from  harm  let  him  fly!  for  we  mind 

of  sad  loss, 
When  the  famed  Ancient  Mariner's  dead 

albatross 
With  the  wound  of  the  cross-bow  upon 

him,  still  threw 
The  black  luck  of  death  on  a  bold,  merry 

crew. 
Free  and  proud  let  him  swim!    for  the 

treasures  below 
In  the  great  tossing  deep,  where  he  glides 

to  and  fro, 
Gathered  year  after  year,, since  The  Ship 

had  its  birth, 
Far  surpasses  in  wealth  all  the  cities  of 

earth. 

Oome  again  in  our  ken,  bird  of  cheer! 
"Luck"  hath  claim  to  thy  name:   bring 

it  here!. 
Tell  our  home — tell  this  dome-bordered 

shore — 

To  be  great  is  its  fate  evermore; 
That    no    gale    shall    bewail    its    re- 
treats— 

66 


THE    SEA-BIRD    IN    TOWN. 

And  no  earthquake  have  birth  in  its 
streets ; 

That  no  pestilence  threading  its  joy-loving 
throngs, 

Shall  turn  its  gay  measures  ta  funeral- 
songs; 

That  no  foe  will  build  deaths  on  its  wave- 
girded  walls, 

Or  strew  fear  and  despair  through  its 
homes  and  its  halls, 

From  the  far-away  sea  and  their  "rockets' 
red  glare", 

Or  the  ominous  bird-ships  that  now  sail 
the  air; 

That  'twill  teach  the  great  truth  for  the 
whole  world  to  see, 

How  a  city  can  live,  though  its  subjects 
be  free! 

And,  menacing  meanness  and  welcoming 
worth, 

Be  greatest  of  all  the  great  cities  of  earth! 


67 


How  CAN  this  country  fail  to  become  one 
of  the  best  educated  ones  in  the  world,  as 
long  as  people  are  willing  to  make  such  sac- 
rifices  for  their  children? 

Who  but  must  admire  their  self-abnegation 
in  favor  of  those  who  are  coming  on  to  fill 
their  places? 

Of  course,  sometimes,  they  overdo  it:  and 
it  strikes  me  these  parents  did. 


EDUCATING   THE    FAMILY. 


EDUCATING   THE    FAMILY. 

Go  you  to  bed  now,  Olga,  and  get  you  a 

good  night's  rest: 
Needed  we'll  be  tomorrow,  and  both  must 

do  our  best. 
Summer  is  well  near  over — the  days,  will 

soon  be  cool; 
Fix  must  we  now  the  children,  and  start 

them  off  for  school. 

Dorothy  she'll  be  going  a  part  of  every 

day, 
Out  to  a  kindergarten,  to  teach  her  how 

to  play : 
Never  need  to  worry  at  all  to  choose  her 

fun- 
Even  a  part  of  the  playing  is  by  the 

teacher  done. 

69 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Tommy  he  is  in  sixth  grade:  you  hardly 
would  suppose 

Children  could  ever,  learn  half  the  little 
rascal  knows! 

Thirteen  separate  studies  he  had,  or  very 
near: 

And  I  am  told  the  number  will  be  in- 
creased, this  year. 

Emily's  in  the  grammar  school:  the  cun- 
ning little  sage ! 

Knows  some  several  times  more  than  I 
did  at  her  age; 

Knows  who  she's  going  to  marry,  and 
leaves  it  me  to  learn; 

Acts  and  talks  like  really  'twas  none  of 
my  concern. 

Johnny  is  in  the  high  school:    it's  living 

life  anew, 
When  that  brilliant  darling  gives  me  an 

interview ! 
As  he  comes  in  to  dinner,  his  airs  are  all 

so  fine! 

70 


EDUCATING   THE    FAMILY. 

Seems  as  if  we'd  invited  some  duke  or 
prince  to  dine. 

Lionel's  off  for  college — he's  one  of  their 

smartest  smart: 
He  has  been  studying  football,  and  knows 

it  all  by  heart. 
Also  the  Greek  and  Latin:    which  no  one 

need  condemn, 
But  which,  if  -he  did  not  study,  'twould  be 

the  worse  for  them. 

Samuel,  he's  a  graduate — learned  all  they 

have  to  tell — 
Now  again  he  is  with  us,  and  tired,  and 

not  so  well. 
Have  you  forgotten,  Olga? — I'll  tell  you 

once  more,  then — 
Have  his  breakfast  ready,  in  case  that  he 

wakes  at  ten. 

As   for  their  father  and   mother — we've 

had  some  yeiars  ago 
All  the  old-fashioned  learning  on  things 

we  need  to  know; 
71 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

But  we  are  bound  that  our  children,  what- 

e'er  their  future  fate, 
Must  have  an  education,  and  have  it  up 

to  date. 


72 


TO    THE    WIZARD    OF    ALBION. 


TO  THE  WIZARD  OF  ALBION. 

Hail,  Dickens!  if  in  yonder  star-girt  land, 
Thou    canst    but    wander    through    its 

streets  and  vales, 
And  then  before  the  breathless  millions 

stand, 

And  tell  thy  merry  and  pathetic  tales, 
If  thou  canst  still  thy  daily  toil  prolong, 
Plead  for  the  right,  and  battle  with  the 

wrong, 
The  happiness  of  Heaven  will  round  thee 

spread, 
For  thou  thy  path  Heaven-given  still  wilt 

tread. 


73 


It  is  stated  in  holy  writ  that  he  who  calls 
his  brother  a  fool,  is  in  danger  of  something 
very  much  hotter  even  than  the  remark;  but 
there  may  be  cases  where  the  fool  himself 
is  not  entirely  outside  of  danger. 

Certainly  j  any  one  who  meanders  through 
life  with  no  regard  for  the  rights  or  comfort, 
or  even  the  lives  of  others^  deserves  some 
kind  of  punishment,  either  in  this  world  or 
the  next — maybe  both. 


THE   FOOL   THAT   DROPS   THE   MATCH. 


THE  FOOL  THAT  DROPS  THE 
MATCH. 

It  has  been  said,  that  anywhere, 

The  biggest  fool  afloat, 
Is  he  who  makes  a  rocking-chair 

Of  some  one  else's  boat: 
But  equal  with  him  in  the  race, 

The  -eggs  of  woe  to  hatch, 
Is,  in  unknown  or  known  disgrace, 

The  fool  that  drops  the  match. 

What  is't  to  him,  if,  in  his  haste 

A  fragrant  weed  to  try, 
The  folds  of  woman's  pride  and  taste 

Hang  dangerously  nigh? 
What  if  a  precious  life  recede 

With  flame-enhanced  despatch? 
He  did  not  do  the  shameful  deed: 

He  only  dropped  a  match. 
75 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

What  is't  to  him,  if  stores  of  wealth 

In  flame  may  disappear, 
Or  friends  that  walked  in  joy  and  health, 

May  nevermore  come  near? 
What  if  explosions  upward  spring, 

A  hundred  lives  to  snatch? 
He  didn't  do  much  of  anything: 

He  only  dropped  a  match. 

Incendiary — guilty  one 

(As  yet  not  doing  time) 
You'll  learn  the  lesson,  ere  you're  done, 

That  carelessness  is  crime. 
But  when  your  future  home  you  view, 

And  lift  its  red-hot  latch, 
No  matter  then  how  often  you 

May  drop  the  lighted  match ! 


76 


CONQUEROR,,    AND    CONQUERED. 


CONQUEROR,  AND  CONQUERED. 

"Alexander  died  from  a  drunken  debauch." 
There  was  a  rumor,  'mongst  the  nearer 

stars, 

That  the  freed  spirit  of  the  Median  chief 
Sped  to  the  giant  planet  Jupiter — 
Twelve  hundred  times  and  more  the  size 

of  earth. 

"Ah!   here   is  something  worth   the   ef- 
fort!" he 
Said  to   a  grim  old  Thracian,  who  had 

fought 

Many  a  battle  hand  in  hand  with  him, 
And   whose   bold  spirit   also    there    was 

thrown. 
The   Thracian   threw   to   him   a    fearless 

smile. 
"How  can  you  think  of  conquering  this," 

he  said, 
"You  who  were  conquered  by  a  cask  of 

wine?" 

77 


Some  people  are  color-blind;  some  tone- 
deaf.  Some  do  not  know  the  sacred  melody 
of  Pleyel's  Hymn,  from  Fisher's  Hornpipe: 
and  yet  they  love  music,  and  join  in  it,  or 
rather  hang  upon  it,  with  unrestrained  voices, 
every  chance  they  get. 

If  this  soft-hearted  Irishman  had  only  been 
given  a  connecting  link  between  his  senti- 
ment and  his  violin — //  he  had  been  able  to 
voice  upon  the  magic  strings  of  the  resined 
harp  the  sweetness  of  his  mind  and  heart — 
he  might  have  made  the  world  weep  with  his 
playing. 


LEARNING    RORY    O  MORE. 


LEARNING  RORY  O'MORE. 

Sure  I  lived  a  whole  yare    [said  young 

Patrick  Maroney] 
Widin    the    same    hash'ry    wid    Michael 

Mahoney, 
Around  the  same  table  we  bored  and  we 

boarded, 
And    ate    ivery  thing    that    the    panthry 

afforded : 
But  that  was  enough   for  the  price,   I'll 

allow— 

Which  was  nothin'  to  what  cooked  pro- 
visions is  now. 
An'  wid  chaffin'  an'  laughin'  we  got  along 

well, 
And  I  loved  him  as  much  as  I'd  care  for 

to  tell. 

But  my  frind  had  one  habit  that  made  you 
forget 

79 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Oftentimes,  what  a  charmin'  young  feller 

you'd  met. 
He  would  wake  half  the  night,  would  this 

sing'lar  lad, 
And  would  schrape  on  a  rusty  ould  riddle 

he  had, 
And  if  time  and  if  tune  at  a  million  each 

went, 
He    would    niver   be    able    to    lay   up    a 

cent; 
And  I  ask,  "What's  it  for?"  and  he  says, 

swate  as  June, 
"I'm  jist  learnin'  to  play  one  perticular 

tune : 
They  say  ganius  is  work,  and  of  work  I'm 

the  doer: 
\nd  you  one  day  will  hear  me  play  'Rory 

O'More.'  " 

\nd   he   went   and   took   lessons   here— 

there — anywhere — 
\nd  his  teachers  all  stuck  in  the  bogs  of 

despair; 

80 


LEARNING    RORY    O'MORE. 

But  he  said,  "I'll  kape  on  for  the  shtrings 
to  talk  right, 

Till  the  cows  all  come  home  an'  die  dur- 
ing the  night:" 

And  I  says  to  my  frind  "I'm  afeared  ivery 
day, 

That  the  tune  the  old  cow  died  on's  all 
ye'U  e'er  play:" 

But  he  worked  and  he  scraped  what  the 
house  would  endure, 

In  a  way  would  have  murdhred  poor  Rory 
O'More. 

An'  he  took  off  the  resin  by  pounds: 
an'  I  said, 

"Was  the  music  used  up  when  they  made 
the  man's  head?" 

And  he'd  ask  me  o'er  often  when  through 
for  the  night, 

"Don't  you  think,  now,  Maroney,  I'm  get- 
tin'  it  right?" 

An'  I  says  ivery  time — wid  the  truth  to 
commune— 

81 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

"It  might  slip  in  as  part  of  a  Chinaman's 

tune, 
But    I   .think    if    poor   Rory   that   racket 

should  hear, 
He  would  turn  in  his  grave  an'  then  shtop 

up  his  ear." 

Well,  the  rest  of  the  boarders  felt  mostly 

like  me, 
And   they   give    the   poor  lad   the   name 

"Fiddle  Dee  Dee;" 
And  he  made  some  excursions  clane  out 

of  his  head, 
An'  he  took  loads  of  med'cine,  an'  took  to 

his  bed; 
Till  the  -docthor  decreed  (the  poor  fellow 

was  poor) 
"He  can  live  for  one  day,  but  I  can't  give 

him  more." 

And  I  said  through  my  tears,  "Say,  dear 

boy,  does  it  be 
That  ye'd  like  to  sind  words  to  your  folks 

o'er  the  sea?" 

82 


LEARNING    RORY    O  MORE. 

And  he  whispered  "Tell  Mother,  my  ould 

mother  dear, 
That  I'd  hoped  to  come  homeward  an'  see 

har  this  year, 
And  to  play  her  the  tune  that  she  danced 

o'er  and  o'er, 
When  a  light-hearted  maiden — swate  Rory 

O'More. 

Faix  the  fiddle  along  I  was  goin'  to  bring, 
And  wid  Rory  surprise  her,  the  very  first 

thing. 
So  I  worked  till  I  calloused  my  fingers  and 

thumb, 
But  however  I  coaxed  it,  the  tune  would 

not  come; 
And  it  never  will  be  my  good  fortune,  I 

fear, 
To  be  playin'  that  tuna  for  my  mother  to 

hear." 

Then  he  slept  for  a  minut' — then  raised 

up  and  cried, 
"Bring   the   fiddle   here    quick!    for   she 

seems  at  my  side!" 
83 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

An'  he  snatched  up  the  bow,  and  upon  my 
dear  word, 

He  played  "Rory  O'More"  schwate  as 
ever  you  heard ! 

And  he  sunk — wid  a  smile  of  affection 
and  pridd, 

And  then  followed  the  Doc's  last  pre- 
scription, an'  died. 

An'  there  drifted  one  mornin'  a  letter  our 

way, 
How    that    Mike    and    his    mother    both 

went  the  same  day! 
And    there's    some    of    us    d>ramy    ones 

thought  it  was  sure 
That  while  passing,  she  heard  him  play 

Rory  O'More. 


84 


ON    THE    ELYSIAN    FIELDS. 


ON  THE  ELYSIAN   FIELDS. 

"Not  yet,  but  soon." 
Said  Bacon   to   Shakespeare,   I  oft  hear 

your  name- 
In  five  diff'rent  spellings  they  quote  it: 
But  as  for  the   STUFF — truth   is   always 

the  same — 
You  know  mighty  well  that  I  wrote  it." 

Then   Shakespeare  replied,   "here's   still 

work  to  be  done- 
There  is  no  use  to  scold  or  to  banter: 
For  yonder  in  new  robes  of  khaki,  comes 

one, 
Who  settles  all  questions  instanter." 

Then  the  referee  smiled,  and  said  "What's 

in  a  name? 

Uncalled-for  this  crass  conversation— 
By  George,  neither  one  of  you  scribbled 

that  same: 

Twas  ME,  in  an  off-incarnation." 
85 


Parodies  have  always  been  considered  a 
legitimate  species  of  humor — and  often  more 
notable  for  their  deviations  from  the  original, 
than .  for  their  resemblances  to  it.  Every 
writer  with  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  has  in- 
dulged in  this  species  of  literary  gayety,  in 
<me  way  or  another.  Few  notable  poems, 
but  have  been  parodied  (and  often  by  able 
hands)  again  and  again. 


O    WHERE   WILL   BE. 


O  WHERE  WILL  BE. 

A    PARODY. 

Oh  where  will  be  the  cats  that  yawl — one 

hundred  years  from  now? 
And    dogs    that    in    the    night-time    call, 

"Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-  wow"  ? 
We   do   not  know :    we   only   know  that 

Time  sometimes  is  good, 
And  Death  may  do  a  lot  of  things  that 

language  never  could. 

Oh  where  will  be  the  fellow-man — what- 
ever he  deserves, 

That  whistles  in  the  railway-car,  and  rasps 
our  trembling  nerves? 

We  do  not  know:   we  only  hope  that  ere 
a  century  goes, 

His    improvised    and    doleful    tune    may 
reach  a  blessed  close. 
87 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES.      ' 

And  where  will  be  the  gentle  maid  who 

strikes  our  fancy  dumb, 
By  wagging  up  and  down  her  jaw  around 

the  sizzling  gum  ? 
We  do  not  know:    posterity  however,  yet 

may  hope 
That  her  descendants  will  espouse  another 

kind  of  "dope." 

And  where  will  be  the  dear  small  boy,  an 

hundred  years  to  come, 
Who,  when  his  neighbor  wants  to  sleep, 

exploit^  the  festive  drum? 
The  sweet  and  guileless  little  scamp— the 

innocent  young  rogue — 
May  be  in  lands  where  harps  are  used, 

and  drums  are  not  in  vogue. 

Oh  where  will  be — if  this  be  not  a  query 
brusque  and  raw, 

In   what  world  of  the   future — my  dear 
neighbors'  motherinlaw? 

For  in  whichever  one  she  ends  her  stren- 
uous earthly  race, 

He  wants  to  make  some  inquiries  about 
the  other  place. 

88 


STATE'S  EVIDENCE. 


STATE'S  EVIDENCE. 

(Suggested  by  Recent  New  York  Events.) 
What  troubles  arise  betwixt  brother  and 

brother, 
When  rascals   fall  out,   and  go  shooting 

each  other! 
What   worry   and   grief    it    is   certain   to 

make, 
When  gamblers  find  out  that  their  lives 

are  the  stake! 
When  men  "higher  up"  the  sad  mourners 

must  join, 
As  well  as  the  victims  who  furnished  the 

coin! 
Then   they  who   of  dreariest   facts   have 

possession, 
Procure  them  some  sackcloth,  and  run  to 

confession; 
And   each   learns   and  studies   the   great 

task  betimes, 
The    art   "of    confessing    another    man's 

crimes. 

89 


//  we  did  not  hate  the  mosquito  so  bitterly, 
perhaps  we  would  study  it.  We  would  find 
that  it  exists  all  over  the  earth,  even  in  the 
Arctic  regions,  and  is  one  of  the  plagues  of 
explorers. 

The  male  ones  live  upon  such  plants  as 
they  can  find;  relieving  them,  probably,  of 
superfluous  juices,  which  they  can  do  better 
without.  Having  no  nerves,  the  plants  make 
no  resistance,  and  the  male  insect  has  the 
pleasure  of  predatory  dining,  with  none  of 
its  dangers.  The  female,  however,  has  more 
courage,  and  attacks  the  thin-skinned  human 
race,  not  seeming  to  apprehend  any  trouble, 
until  the  palm  of  a  sturdy  hand  comes  crash- 
ing against  its  frail  anatomy. 


TO    THE    LAST    MOSQUITRESS. 


TO  THE  LAST  MOSQUITRESS. 

"Only  the  female  ones  bite." 

Last  wing-vampire  of  the  season ! 

Final  of  uncounted  numbers! 
You,  for  some  sufficient  reason, 

Sing  a  requiem  to  my  slumbers. 
All  the  friends  that  you  have  known* 

Twined  in  merriment  or  pain, 
From  your  gentle  side  have  flown, 

Or  at  sanguine  feasts  were  slain. 

Are  you  oldwife,  mem'ry-laden, 

Or  a  matron,  blithe  and  bustling, 
Or  some  fair  insectile-maiden, 

For  a  placid  future  hustling? 
Were  you  watched  by  winged  swain, 

As  you  fluttered  to  and  fro? 
Are  you — with  or  without  brain, 

Handsome,  as  mosquitoes  go? 
91 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Have  you  pedigree  to  tell? 

Did  a  grandame  boast  the  process 
Of  the  sinking  of  a  well 

In  proud  Caesar's  strong  proboscis? 
Did  fair  Cleopatra  pause 

In  her  international  cooing, 
To  extend  bejewelled  claws 

For  your  ancestress'  undoing? 

Anyhow,  you  are  my  guest: 

In  the  lamplight's  faint  refulgence, 
Go  ahead  and  do  your  best, 

At  one  unrestrained  indulgence! 
Take  your  drop  of  blood,  I  say! 

Mine    a    thousand    times    could    fill 

you: — 
Guiltless  vampire,  go  your  way: 

I'd  be  hanged  before  I'd  kill  you! 


92 


TO    DEAD    BUTTERFLIES. 


TO  DEAD  BUTTERFLIES. 

Sun-gilded  things,  jewels  with  wings, 

Joying,  with  tremulous  motion, 
How  overhead  gaily  you  sped, 
Through  the  air's  crystalline  ocean! 

Born  into  glee,  fluttering  free 

From  the  cold  coffins  that  bound  you, 

Bright  did  you  blaze,  mid  the  warm  days, 
And  the  new  freedom  around  you! 

Onoe  you  were  down,  worm-like  and 
brown, 

In  the  weeds'  chill-spreading  shadows: 
Then,  death  defying,  far  you  were  flying 

Over  the  gardens  and  meadows. 


93 


Oh,  the  automobile!  what  shall  pedestrians 
do  with  it?  Scarcely  any  one  but  can  remem- 
ber sundry  narrow  escapes  from  its  swift- 
whirling  wheels,  and  hundreds  and  perhaps 
thousands  are  in  the  cemetery,  on  account 
of  the  escapes  being  left  out. 

The  laws  that  have  been  made  with  which 
to  regulate  this  newer  sort  of  transportation, 
seem  almost  as  evasive  as  the  machines 
themselves:  but  let  us  hope  that  some  day 
it  will  be  made  reasonably  safe  to  walk 
abroad  in  the  public  roads. 


AUTOMOBILIA. 


AUTOMOBILIA. 

Ten  men  walking  along  the  street, 
Hailing  the  joys  that  mortals  meet: 
Comes  an  auto  of  swift  design — 
Now,  alas!  there  ara  only  nine. 

Nine  men  crossing  the  public  way, 
Full  of  the  joy  of  the  golden  day; 
Sounds  the  whistle  a  bit  too  late — 
Now,  dear  me !  there  are  only  eight. 

Eight  young  children!  upon  the  road, 
Playing  in  front  of  their  abode : 
Comes  a  smart  recruiter  of  heaven— 
Now,  you  note,  there  are  only  seven. 

Seven  men  crossing  the  busy  street, 
Little  knowing  what  they  will  me^t: 
Comes  a  craft  of  the  River  Styx— 
Now,  if  you  count,  there  are  only  six. 
95 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Six  men  running  a  touring-car^ 
Pondering  not  how  safe,  but  far; 
One  of  them  reaches  home  alive — 
Hospitals  shelter  the  other  five. 

Five  joy-riders  unsafe  to  meet, 
Riding  amuck  in  the  midnight  street, 
Fifty  miles  per  the  hour  or  more: 
Now  there  are  merely  parts  of  four. 

One  poor  fellow  who1  stays  at  home, 
Never  abroad  in  the  streets  to  roam: 
He  is  in  the  invalid  ranks — 
But  he  as  yet  is  living,  thanks. 


96 


THE  WELCOME — A  PARODY. 


THE  WELCOME— A  PARODY. 

(New-Girl's  Version.) 

"O  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the 

morning, 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come 

without  warning"- 
Come    when    it's    easy,    or    come    with 

endeavor; 
Come  when  you're  stupid,  or  come  when 

you're  clever. 
But  please — if  you  care  for  me — don't 

stay  forever! 


97 


Some  of  us  in  Brooklyn  frequently  set  our 
watches  by  the  nine  p.m.  gun  at  the  Navy 
Yard.  Whatever  else  goes  or  comes,  that 
great  note  of  welcome  and  defiance  goes 
sweeping  over  the  city,  as  if  to  say,  "A  bless- 
ing for  those  who  come  to  us  with  good 
intent — a  grave  for  those  who  come  to  rob 
or  injure  us" 


THE  NINE  O'CLOCK  GUN. 


THE  NINE  O'CLOCK  GUN. 

When  the  dark  of  the  day  nestles  down, 
And  the  stars  hang  their  lamps  in  the 

skies, 
When  New  York,  the  old  world-famous 

town, 

Part  in  flama  part  in  shadow  land  lies, 
When  'tis  time  that  the  children  be  wed 
To  the  innocent  white-pillowed  bed, 
But  grim  villains  from  over  the  earth 
Soon  will  prowl  to  dishonor  their  birth, 
Thus   wren    Night   her   first    finger   has 

pressed 
On    the    brow    of    the    world,    gently 

striving 
To  soothe  into  much-needed  rest, 

With    the    magics    of    tender   contriv- 
ing; 

Then  thund'ring  o'er  roof-top  and  tower, 
99 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Comes    the    first    mighty    stroke    of    an 

hour: 

Then  again,  as  at  set  of  the  sun, 
Comes  the  boom  of  the  nine-o'clock  gun. 

From  the  wave-guarded  nest  where  our 

fighting-boats  rest, 

When  they've  homed  the  far-away  seas, 
Comes  this  signal  of  power  at  the  even- 
ing's mid-hour, 

That  the  timid  may  slumber  at  ease. 
That  the  hearts  of  the  West  may  with 

confidence  rest, 

In  the  good  will  of  nations  around: 
But  the  mailed  hands  of  might  are  all 

readly  to  smite, 
Should  that  friendship  a  treach'ry  be 

be  found. 
So  God  grant  that  our  peace  with  the 

world  may  not  cease ! 
But  the  flowers  of  a  garden  are  nought, 
Unless,  shunning  neglect,  there  is  power 

to  protect, 

When  by  cruel  desire  they  are  sought. 
100 


THE    NINE    O'CLOCK    GUN. 

> 

So  let  nations  "disarm",  if  they  look  for  a 

charm 

In  the  ease  of  a  duty  undone.: — 
Gentle  peace  is  our  choice:  but  we  still 

must  rejoice 
'  In  the  boom  of  the  nine-o'clock  gun. 


101 


There  is  a  great  difference  of  opinion  as 
to  the  desirability  of  gum-chewing  in  public. 
Some  do  not  mind  an  occasional  exhibition 
o/  it;  some\  tolerate  it;  others  abhor  it.  It 
has  often  been  doubted  whether  musicians 
could  do  their  best  work  while  jamming  their 
jaws  up  and  down.  It  is  remembered  and 
stated  that  "Blind  Tom",  the  famous  negro 
pianist,  frequently  chewed  gum  while  play- 
ing the  most  splendid  compositions :  but  some 
say  that  his  work  was  all  inspiration,  and  he 
did  not  know  whether  he  had  anything  in  his 
mouth,  or  indeed  whether  he  had  any  mouth, 
until  after  his  selection  was  finished.  The 
author  of  this  takes  no  sides  on  the  subject: 
he  merely  tries  to  reproduce  the  feelings  of 
.  an  ultra-imaginative  music-lover,  under  cer- 
tain circumstances. 


DISENCHANTED. 


DISENCHANTED. 

I  saw  the  mioving  pictures  trace 
Some  several  passions  of  the  soul: 

But  most  of  all  I  watched  the  face 
Of  the  piano's  fair  control. 

How  well  she  followed  up  and  down, 
The  swift  events  that  flittered  there ! 

She  voiced  each  view  of  field  and  town, 
From  radiant  hope  to  black  despair. 

Whatever  of  fancy  or  of  fact 

The  whirling  films  were  wont  to  do, 
She  with  the  most  exquisite  tact, 

Made  the  piano  tell  it,  too. 

I  crept  up  on  her,  as  it  were, 
The  glories  of  her  art  to  trace: 
103 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

I  almost  Fell  in  love  with  her, 
In  that  somewhat  unusual  place. 

j 

I  nearer  lurked:  but  oh,  such  pains 
Disastrous  were :  my  heart  went  dumb : 

Right  'midst  the  most  bewild'ring  strains, 
The  little  beast  was  chewing  gum. 


104 


OCTOBER'S  CONTRAST. 


OCTOBER'S  CONTRAST.  ^ 

October  held  a  carnival, 

When  Summer  days  had  fled; 
His  halls  were  trimmed  with  blue   and 
gold, 

And  banners  flaming  red. 
Now  all  the  world  with  fowl  and  fruit 

Were  at  his  table  fed; 
The  richest  wines  of  bough  or  vines 

Before  his  guests  were  spread. 

October  held  a  funeral 

When  Summer  nights  were  fled; 
And  all  the  leaves  and  all  the  vines 

And  all  the  flowers  were  dead. 
The  richly-colored  drapery 

Was  burial-robes  instead, 
And  shorn  of  pride,  he  lay  and  died 

Upon  a  lowly  bed. 
105 


The  destruction  of  a  great  American  war- 
ship, in  a  foreign  harbor,  was  one  of  the 
great  tragic  events  of  the  century.  It  will 
be  one  of  the  mysteries  of  all  centuries — 
for  the  real  history  of  that  terrible  explosion 
that  has  been  heard  around  the  world  again 
and  again  ever  since,  will  never  be  told,  or, 
if  it  is  told,  will  not  be  credited  excepting  by 
a  part  of  humanity. 

Among  its  results  was  the  freeing  of  Cuba 
from  the  tyranny  of  Spain;    but  the  lessons 
learned  from  it  were,  if  possible,  still  more 
'  valuable. 


IN    THE  WRECKAGE  OF   THE  MAINE. 


IN  THE  WRECKAGE  OF  THE  MAINE, 

In  the  farm-lands  or  the  city 

Grieved  a  woman — sad — alone; 
'Neath  God's  everlasting  pity 

She  was  weeping  for  her  own. 
Cabinets  had  toiled  and  wrangled, 

Statesmen  could  not  soothe  her  pain — 
For  that)  weary  heart  was  tangled 

In  the  wreckage  of  the  Maine. 


Through  the  goldenj  halls  of  fashion 

Moved  a  lady  tall  and  fair; 
Round  hrar  gleamed  the  flames  of  passion 

On  the  soft  magnetic  air. 
Suitors  bowed  and  bent  above  her, 

But  their  wiles  were  all  in  vain: 
She  was  thinking  of  a  lover 

In  the  wreckage  of  the  Miaine. 
107 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

On  a  cot,  a  sailor  lying 

Bowed  his  soul  in  silent  prayer; 
Through  the  long  days  he  was  dying ; 

But  his  tears  were  falling  there, 
For  the  gallant  fellow-seamen 

Who   might   rast,   while   Time   should 

.  reign, 
In  that  sepulchre  of  freemen, 

'Neath  the  wreckage  of  the  Maine. 

On  a  continent  of  splendor 

Was  a  nation  calmly  grand — 
Freedom's  natural  defender — 

Honest  labor's  helping  hand: 
And  it  spoke,  half  kind,  half  cruel: 

"Liberty,  O  Haughty  Spain, 
Soon  may  grasp  another  jewel 

From  the  wreckage  of  the  Maine!" 


108 


CORALS,  ON   THE   "MAINE." 


CORALS,  ON  THE  "MAINE." 

The  warrior  ship  had  moored  beneath  the 

waves, 
Its   tangled    depths   were    crowded  thick 

with  graves: 
Each  jewelled  sword  had  bent  a  shattered 

knee 
Before  the  rusting  sabres  of  the  sea. 

True  patriots  could  not  let  their  heroes  lie 
Without  one  glance  of  pity  from  the  sky: 
So  delved  among  those  caverns  of  despair, 
And  all  the  ghosts  of  ruin  slumb'ring 
there. 

.  ! 

No    gleaming    triumph    of  the  builder's 

toil, 

But  one  demoniac  moment  served  to  spoil ; 
And  hearts  long  loved  and  cherished  night 

and  day, 

109 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Were  in  a  midnight  tempest  swept  away. 

It  was  a  lesson  to  our  minds — alas! 
That  warning:  how  or  when  it  comes  to 

pass, 
This    world    must    heed    the    universal 

touch, 
And  fall  in  Ruin's  ever-waiting  clutch. 

But  lo! — amid  that  sad  and  silent  place, 
Were  tiny  craftsmen  of  the  coral  race! 
Those  unobtrusive  "toilers  of  the  sea"- 
Those  builders  of  the  islands  yet  to  be. 

With  placid  thrift,  they  plied  their  wizard- 
trade, 

Close-clinging  to  the  fragments  War  had 
made, 

As  if  those  had  been  summoned  to  their 
call: 

They  knew  not  that  the  wrecks  were 
wrecks  at  all. 

It  was  a  lesson  to  our  hearts! — with  joy 
We  felt  that  Ruin  is  in  God's  employ; 
And  there  are  builders  that  we  cannot  see, 
110 


CORALS,,   ON    THE   "MAINE. 

Erecting  grander  worlds  for  you  and  me. 

It  was  a  lesson  to  our  souls! — above 
The  gloomy*  graves  of  those  we  loved  and 

love, 
The  joys  they  sought,  our  martyred  lads 

may  know, 
On  spirit  islands,  fashioned  long  ago. 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  THE  MAINE. 

Out  of  the  harbor  she  sought  long  ago, 

Harbor  that  welcomed,  but  served  not 

to  save, 

Under  the   clouds,   bending  piteous   and 
low, 

Crept  the  great  ship  to  her  grave. 
Not  from  the  battle's  tumultuous  breath, 

Not  from  the  glory  of  victory's  morn : — 
But  from  her  travail  of  flame  and  of  death, 

Lo!  a  republic  was  born. 

Not    in   the   arms   of   this  Queen  of  the 

Wrecks, 
Lingered  the   dust  of  her   far-famous 

dead: 
Forests  of  palms  hailed  the  flag  on  her 

decks — 

Roses  above  her  were  spread. 
112 


THE  FUNERAL   OF   THE  MAINE. 

Long  had  she  waited  her  funeral-day, 
Lying  in  rough  state  mid  sunlight  or 

gloom : 
Now  the  world's  plaudits  each  step  of  the 

way 
Followed  her  path  to  the  tomb. 

Full  sixty  fathoms  we  buried  her  low, 

'Neath  the   rough   sea   and  the  ne'er- 
changing  skies: 
Far  from  molesting  of  friend  or  of  foe, 

Heedless  of  tempests  she  lies. 
Lies    in    the    arms    of    the  ocean-waves 
pressed, 

With  the  wet  sea-roses  over  her  spread, 
While,  with  the  love  of  a  nation  caressed, 

Arlington  cares  for  her  dead. 


113 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 


THE   ROSE'S   LAMENT. 

Another  summer-time  has  goirs,  where  all 

the  seasons  go— 
The  autumn  winds  will  soon  be  here,  and 

whistle  to  and  fro; 
The  drooping  leaves,  in  gaudy  sheaves, 

have  closed  their  fall  display, 
And  shown  that  everything  must  have  its 

night,  as  well  as  day. 
The  winter  peers,  O  Mamma,  from  its  icy 

parapet, 
And  I — a  bleak  and  lonely  flower — have 

not  been  gathered  yet! 

When  summer  came,  you  recollect,  we 

left  the  town  behind, 
And  fished  along  the  fertile  sea,  to  see 

what  I  could  find: 
I  hooked  Adolphus  Arthur  Jenckes,  and 

played  on  him  awhile 
114 


THE   ROSE  S    LAMENT. 

My  swellest  gowns  and  bathing-suits,  and 

best  'assorted  smile. 
But  when  I  brought  him  safe  to  land,  'twas 

with  new-opened  eyes: 
Young  Mr.  Jenckes  proved  -and  was  proved 

a  barber  in  disguise ! 

Wa  found  a  most  divine  hotel,  with  all 
our  plans  in  tune, 

Where  eligible  men  at  hops  were  thick  as 
leaves  in  June; 

I  dawdled  round  with  thre^  young  shrimps, 
and  mildly  was  -enraged, 

To  find  that  every  one  of  them  was  sev- 
eral times  engaged! 

When  earnestness  has  been  cajoled,  th'a 
one  that  suffered  weeps: 

It's  hard  to  do  the  flirting-game,  when  one 
must  play  at  keeps ! 

We  went  where  people  who  ar^  sick  pur- 
sue a  jolly  round, 

And  drink  such  portions  of  the  sea  as 
bubble  from  the  ground; 
115 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

We  stepped  into  a  boarding-house  tumult- 

uously  serene, 
And  where  I  made  myself,  I  thought,  quite 

proper  to  be  seen. 
"Ralph's   diamonds   proposed   to   me — no 

rivalship  I  feared — 
Until,  you  recollect,  Mamma,  his  second 

wife  appeared. 

i 

And  then,  that  millionaire — oh  my!  we 
wandered  by  the  lake, 

And  I  fell  in,  before  'his  'ayes,  by  pre- 
arranged mistake : 

Allowed  myself  to  consciousness  restored, 
when  best  'twould  be, 

And  thought,  "He's  saved  my  life!  of 
course  he'll  have  to  marry  me!" 

How  I  to  my  preserver  clung,  with  all  the 
strength  I  had! 

But  'twasn't  the  millionaire: — 'twas  poor 
old  unexpected  Dad. 

> 

I've  had  to  take,  you  know,  since  first 

from  maidenhood  I  grew, 
116 


THE    ROSE  S    LAMENT. 

Three  tucks  within  my  age,  Mamma,  and 

there's  another  due; 
Unless  the  angels  intervene,  I  fear  'twill 

never  be, 
That  Hymen  crosses  o'er  my  path,  and 

swings  his  torch  at  me. 
I'll  try  once  more  next  summer:   when,  if 

something  doesn't  befall, 
I'll  think  I'll  'have  to  go  through  life  an 

"Auntie",  after  all. 


117 


Of  all  the  ultra-mean  things  that  are  done 
in  this  world  (and  there  are  plenty  of  them, 
Heaven  knows)  the  kidnapping  of  a  child  is 
one  of  the  very  worst.  A  villain  who  can 
play  upon  the  homesickness  of  a  little  one, 
and  the  terrible  anguish  of  a  parent,  for  the 
sake  of  financial  gain,  has  no  right  to  expect 
mercy  from  the  law,  or  from  any  human 
being  who  has  a  heart. 

It  is  pleasant  to  dwell  upon  the  fact,  that 
in  this  case,  there  was  o/ze  member  of  the 
gang,  who  did  have  a  heart,  when  at  last  it 
was  reached. 


THE  KIDNAPPED   BOY'S   PRAYER. 


THE  KIDNAPPED  BOY'S  PRAYER. 

The    deed    was    done — the    game    was 
caught:   the\  robbers  grimly  smiled 

And  chuckled  at  how  easy  'twas  to  steal  a 
helpless  child. 

A  lure  into  a  carriage-door,  a  rush  through 
gleam  and  gloom, 

A  manufactured  jail  within  a  rude  and 
dreary  room; 

A  warning  to  a  homesick  boy  to  keep  dis- 
creet and  still, 

With  threatenings  from  men  who  knew  an 
hundred  ways  to  kill ; 

A  lette'r  to  the  stricken  sire  with  money 
its  demand, 

And  hints  of  death  if  so  the  coin  came 
promptly  not  to  hand; 

And  night  fell  down  upon  the  scene,  and 
left  the  boy  alone, 
119 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

With  no  one  there  save  God  Himself,  of 
all  he  e'er  had  known. 

Of  you  who  read  this  simple  tale,  the 
strongest  must  agree 

That  'mong  all  homesick,  heartsick  lads, 
the  wretohedest  was  he. 

This  was  the  first  of  all  his  nights  when 
none  he  loved  was  there; 

The  first  that  he  had  ever  known  without 
a  mother's  prayer. 

But  he,  still  brave,  in  spite  of  all  the  ter- 
rors round  him  thrown, 

Pushedi  back  a  sob,  and  said  "I  guess  I'll 
have  to  pray  alone. 

"O  Lord,  of  course  you're  on  to  this — 

know  all  about  the  case, 
An'  why  you  let  'em  bring  me  here  to  such 

a  shabby  place; 
It's  go-in*  to  make  Pop  rippin'  mad — an' 

tempt  him  for  to  swear — 
An'  Mom — I'm  sure  this  instant  now  she's 

joinin'  me  in  prayer; 
120 


THE   KIDNAPPED   BOY  S   PRAYER. 

An'   Sister  Mabe   is  grievin'   'cause'  this 

mornin'  when  we  stood 
An'  scrapped  about  that  little  game,  she 

said  I  wan't  no  good; 
An'  Brother  Rob  has  one  the  less  to  tell 

his  stories  to, 
An'  Auntie  Grace  is  worryin'  'round,  not 

knowin'  what  to  do; 

And  Baby's  gone  just  half  to  sleep,  quite 

sura  things  isn't  right, 
Because,  you  see,,  I  didn't  come  and  kiss 

him  'sweet  good-night'; 
An'  Ninelives  won't  be  half  a  cat  without 

me  in  the  shed, 
To  pick  a  romp  and  scrap  with  him  before 

he  goes  to  bed; 
An'  when  tomorrow  mornin',  boys  comes 

round  there  on  the  sly, 
An'   gives  our  little   curly  squeal,   they 

won't  get  no  reply; 
An'  Teacher  she  will  sort  of  mope  an' 

feel  a  little  sad, 
121 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

An'  state  that  now  she's  lost  the  most  mis- 
chievous boy  she  had; 
(An'  yet  she  thought  she  liked  me,  too, 

an'  said  'twas  very  sweet — 
That  time  with  stones  I  plunked  a  dog 

that  bit  her  on  the  street;) 
In  truth,  O  Lord,  I  think  they  all  would 

love  to  see  me  back, 
Though  not  so  glad  as  /  would  be  to  take 

the  home'ard  track; 
An'  if  you'll  help  me  out  o'  this,  I  tell  you 

straight  and  true, 
Whenever  it  is  so  I  can,  I'll  do  as  much 

lor  you." 

Of  course  it  was  a  rough  young  prayer — 

in  neither  prose  'nor  rhyme — • 
Or  grammar,  such  as  one  might  use,  in 

youth's  or  manhood's  time; 
But  still  it  may  have  worked  more  good 

than  words  discreet  and  fair; 
For  God  knows  many  curious  ways  with 

which  to  answer  prayer. 
122 


THE  KIDNAPPED   BOY  S  PRAYER. 

The  bandit  guard — an  old  gray  rogue — 

was  listening  at  the  door, 
And  caught  some  talk,  the  like  of  which, 

he  ne'er  had  heard  before. 
But  echoes  of  a  boyhood  past  came  tolling 

through  his  brain, 
And  his  crude  heart  had  softnesses  that 

worked  the  youngster  gain. 
"Come'  with  me,  kid",  he  whispered  soft: 

the  two  foes  sneaked  away, 
Perhaps  ten  minutes  from  the  time  the 

boy  commenced  to  pray. 
They  crept  through   many  hidden  paths 

,  not  fruitless  of  alarms, 
But  when  next  morning  smiled,  the  boy 

was  in  his  mother's  arms. 


123 


The  good  people  of  the  country  (and  there 
are  many  of  them)  who  are  laboring  in  the 
interests  of  universal  peace,  are  doing  a 
great  and  grand  work.  They  have  already, 
no  doubt,  prevented  several  bloody  and 
expensive  wars. 

Their  plans,  when  successful,  will  settle 
most  of-  the  national  disputes,  by  means  of 
courts  of  arbitration.  This  means,  really, 
large  and  expensive  lawsuits. 

But  none  of  the  nations  ought  to  disarm, 
in  anticipation  of  such  a  result.  When  a 
decision  is  made,  they  must  be  ready  to 
enforce  it,  against  any  nation  that  refuses 
to  abide  by  it. 


THE    STINGLESS    BEE. 


THE  STINGLESS  BEE. 

A  hiver  of  thought,  through  nights  and 

days 

Forever  inventing  some  new  thing, 
Was  trying  in  long  Burbankian  ways, 
To  fashion  a  bee  without  a  sting. 

I 

"O'er  field  and  forest  this  friend  could 

go," 
He  mused,  as  he  toiled,  one  summer 

day, 
"And  never  a  fight  and  never  a  foe 

Its  mission  of  splendor  could  delay. 

i 

"The  time  that  it  now  in  strife  may  use, 
Could  go  to  the  peaceful  help  of  men; 

E'en  children  fondle  it  as  they  choose, 
And  never  be  stung — by  bees — again. 
125 


A    THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

'The  syllable  'less',  this  planet  o'er 
On  many  a  word  has  power  to  please; 

And  I  shall  be  known,  forever  more, 
As  first  deviser  of  stingless  bees." 

That  night  there  came  to  his  restless  bed, 
A  queen-'bee,  wrapped  in  a  filmy  dream : 

A  halo  of  power  adorned  her  head — 
Her  eyes  were  soft  with    the   mother- 
gleam. 

"Strive  not,"  she  said,  "ingenious  one, 
To  rob  my  child  of  its  sole  defense, 

Or  from  the  treasures  that  he  has  won, 
To  say  to  him  'Helpless  go  you  hence!' 

"If  through  great  floods  of  the  life-strewn 
air, 

Unarmed  we  speed  him  upon  his  way, 
The  humblest  insect  lingering  there, 

May  mark  him  out  for  an  easy  prey. 

"If  into  a  honeyed  flower  he  creep, 
To  harvest  its  swaying  mines  of  gold, 
126 


THE    STINGLESS    BEE. 

Then  wingless  robbers  on  him  can  leap-  - 
The    sparrow's    God    may    his    death 
behold. 

"And    how   of   the    treasures   my  palace 

boasts, 

That  man  and  woman  so  gaily  share? — 
Wild  bees   from    the   woods,  in  armored 

hosts, 
With  looted  riches  will  fill  the  ai*!" 

The  hiver  now,  in  his  vision-dream, 

A  call  from  the  tombs  of  patriots  h^ard: 
"Our  monarch  of  sweets,  'twould  surely 

seem, 

Has    given    THIS    NATION    a    warning- 
word!" 


127 


What  will  finally  become  of  our  neighbor- 
republic  on  the  south?  It  is  as  large  as 
France;  as  large  as  Great  Britain;  as  large 
as  Ireland;  as  large  as  Germany;  as  large 
as  Austro-Hungary:  in  fact,  nearly  as  large 
as  all  those  countries  put  together. 

It  has  a  coast-line  of  6,000  miles;  it  has 
all  climates,  all  soils,  and  all  metals.  It  has 
an  ancient  history  that  challenges  the  admira- 
tion of  the  most  brilliant  scholars;  and  a 
modern  one  that  arouses  the  sympathy  of 
the  world. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  harassed  by  civil  war, 
overrun  by  rebels,  and  threatened  with  one 
revolution  after  another. 

Will  we  be  obliged  to  adopt  it,  in  order 
to  save  it  from  hopeless  anarchy,  and  add 
twentyseven  new  stars  to  our  own  glorious 
flag? 


IN    MEXICO. 


IN  MEXICO. 

Pessimist,  Pessimist,  high  and  low, 
What  did  you  find  in  Mexico?— 
Nothing  novel  in  act  or  word, 
M'ore  'than  I  ever  have  seen  or  heard; 
Men  are  yet  as  they  long  have  been ; 
Saints  or  sinners — whiche'er  will  win; 
Brother  with  brother  and  race  with  race, 
Bartering  blood  for  power  and  place, 
Strong  men  dying  by  night  and  day, 
So  the  living  could  have  their  way, 
Thus  it  has  been  and  is  ever  so, 
Where  the  pleasures  and  passions  grow. 

Dreamer — delver  in  long-ago —  ; 

What  did  you  feel  in  Mexico? — • 
Shades  of  the  Toltecs  lingered  there- 
Aztec  conquerings  filled  the  air; 
Cortez  striking  with  greedy  fangs — 
129 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Guatimozin  in  torture-pangs; 
Star-flags  greeting  in  bloody  fray, 
Cerro  Gordo  and  Monterey. 
Small  Napoleon's  'empire-boast, 
Maximilian's  unhappy  ghost; 
All  seemed  wandering  to  and  fro 

There  in  the  hills  of  Mexico. 

\ 

Patriot,  seeking  the  sunrise-glow, 
What  did  you  love  in  Mexico? — 
Heroes  teeming  with  bravery  grand, 
Fighting  for  God  and  father-land, 
Still  in  the  faith  of  duty  strong, 
Whether  their  cause  were  right  or  wrong. 
Still  did  they  suffer,  toil,  and  fight, 
Still  did  they  seek  with  brain  and  might, 
Something  perhaps  they  could  not  see, 
But  that  they  hoped  was  yet  to  be. 
Thus  with  their  blood  there  yet  may  flow 
Future,  blessings  for  Mexico ! 


130 


INDIAN    SUMMER. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

When  the  misty  Second  Summer 
Soothes  again  our  wearied  eye, 

Or  the  storm — unwelcome  comer — 
Throws  a  frown  upon  the  sky: 

Still,  the  steady  truth  divining, 

We  may  know  the  clouds  are  shining, 

And  the  sky  above  is  fair; 

For  the  golden  sun  is  there. 

When  the  mist  of  Pleasure  o'er  us 

Bids  the  soul  in  languor  stay, 
Or  a  sorrow  looms  before  us, 

Sending  night  through  all  the  day, 
Not  exulting — not  repining — 
We  may  know  that  Heaven  is  shining: 
With  the  eyes  of  faith  and  prayer, 
Still  we  see  that  God  is  there. 

131 


When  you  go  to  Poultney,  Vermont,  drive 
or  walk  over  to  East  Poultney ',  and  see  the 
exact  spot  where  Horace  Greeley  came  up 
the  road  from  his  home  in  Massachusetts,  a 
few  miles  away — a  slender  lad  fifteen  years 
of  age,  and  asked  for  a  position  as  appren- 
tice in  the  little  old  printing-office  there,  and 
engaged  to  contribute  his  services  at  forty 
dollars  per  year.  A  better -dressed,  better- 
looking,  and  better-groomed  boy,  would  prob- 
ably have  obtained  more.  He  immediately 
commenced  ((making  good",  and  it  was  not 
many  years  before  he  became  one  of  the 
leading  editors  of  New  York.  His  subse- 
quent history  is  a  part  of  the  history  of  our 
Country. 


THE   COMING  OF    GREELEY. 


THE  COMING  OF  GREELEY. 

'Twas  a  day  of  summer  quiet  in  the  dusty 

village  street; 
All  the  chair-haunts  were  deserted  where 

the  gossips  loved  to  meet; 
Scarce  a  letter  made  its  'exit   from  the 

small  postoffice  door, 
And  a  lonely  clock  was   ticking  in  the 

crude  old  country  store. 
All    the   market-day's    ambition    back   to 

farming  lands  had  gone, 
And  the  sleepy  dwelling-houses  seemed  to 

struggle  with  a  yawn. 
Twas  not   quitd  a  time  for  banners  of 

success  to  be  unfurled, 
Or  to  look  for  an  invasion  from;  a  leader 

of  the  world. 

Look!   into   the   street   there  enters   one 
whose  widely-spoken  name 
133 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Soon  will  light  this  modest  village  with 

the  starlit  torch  of  fame! 
There  is  with  you  one  whom1  Heaven  has 

intended  as  a  seer — 
One  whose  tones  of  honest  wisdom  all  the 

world  willstop  to  hear; 
Who  will  hold  the  thoughts  of  thousands 

in  the  hollow  of  his  hand — 
Who  will  smite  with  leaden  gauntlets  a 

great  Evil  of  the  Land; 
One  whose  words  of  sturdy  wisdom  will 

be  read  by  night  and  day, 
Wheresoe'er   The    Star-strown    Language 

has  pursued  its  gleaming  way; 
Who  in  many  a  hut  and  palace  will  become 

an  honor-guest, 
As  he  runs  the  blade  of  wisdom  round  the 

Ulcer  of  the  West. 

Throng  the  streets,  O  sleuths  of  wonders! 

here  is  something  grand  to  see; 
What  a  prince  of  stately  presence  must 

this  potentary  be! 
134 


THE   COMING   OF    GREELEY. 

He  has  come  with  milk-white  horses  and 

gold  harness  on  them  spread? 
There   are  music-masters  playing — there 

are  banners  overhead? 
There  are  trumpets  singing  triumph  from 

their  bold  and  brazen  lungs? 
There    are    drum-heads    swiftly    rolling 

music-morsels  'neath  their  tongues? 
There    are    soldiers    marching    bravely, 

through  the  village  up  and  down, 
Fiercely    guarding    with    their    weapons 

o'er  a  never-threatened  town? 
All  at  once  from  bonds  of  quiet,  claims 

the  thoroughfare  release, 
And  the  windows   all   are  glowing  with 

the  battle-flags  of  peace? 

No !  this  hero  of  the  future  has  no  splen- 
dors to  employ: 

He  is  not  a  princely  ruler,  but  a  poor  and 
lonely  boy. 

From  the  far-off  country-regions,  he  has 
struggled  here  alone, 
135 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

To  make  good  the  high  ambition  that  his 

heart  so  long  has  known. 
There    is    lack  of  preparation — there    is 

negligence  to  spare — 
From  his  worn  and  dusty  foot-gear,  to  his 

tangled  flaxen  hair; 
There  is  lack  of  boyish  beauty,  and  of 

studied  city  grace, 
From  the  hard  rough  hands  beside  him,  to 

the  freckles  ini  his  face. 
But  a  dogged  resolution  will  not  let  his 

courage  fail, 
And  'his  valiant  heart  keeps  saying,  "I  will 

conquer  and  prevail!" 
Did  he  conquer? — let  the  chapters  of  his 

brave  life  make  reply: 
For  the  boyish  village  printer  won  a  name 

that  will  not  die. 


136 


ARBUTUS. 


ARBUTUS. 

Under  the  snow,  under  the  snow, 
The  leaves  of  the  trailing  arbutus  grow; 
Toiling  the  earth  that  loves  them  nigh, 
But  hoping  to  some  day  see  the  sky. 

Under  the  snow,    under  the  snow, 

The  flowers  of  the  trailing  arbutus  glow; 

E'en  in  the  dark  their  duty  done, 

But  hoping  to  some  day  kiss  the  sun. 


137 


"/  could  sootier  tell  twenty  people  what  to 
do,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  my 
own  showing",  Shakespeare  makes  one  of  his 
characters  say.  The  dramatist  thus  gave 
another  proof  of  the  fact  that  he  wrote  for 
all  time — or  at  least  as  long  as  human  nature 
shall  last.  Everybody  must  admit  that,  and 
will  always  admit  that  the  advice  in  the  fol- 
lowing poem,  is  a  great  deal  more  easily 
given  than  obeyed. 


ADVICE    TO    OTHERS. 


ADVICE  TO  OTHERS. 

Smile — smile — smile  all  the  while, 
And  soon  you  will  daily  wear  it: 

Grin — grin — whate'er  you  are  in — 
And  then  you'll  the  better  bear  it. 

Hope,  hope,  to  the  end  of  your  rope, 
Then  struggle  that  rope  to  sever: 

Mope,  mope,  and  you'll  find  good  scope 
To  follow  the  trade  forever. 

Toil — toil — your  share  of  the  spoil 
Will  come,  somg>  way  or  other; 

Maybe  in  wealth,  and  maybe  in  health, 
And  maybe  the  love  of  your  brother. 

Give — give — 'tis  the  way  to  live, 
If  good  sound  sense  can  guide  it: 

Save — save — and  not  for  the  grave: 
But  what  you  may  need  this  side  it. 
139 


A     THOUSAND    MORE    VERSES. 

Fight — fight — with  all  of  your  might, 
Whenever  the  facts  demand  it: 

Cease — cease — bring  cargoes  of  peace 
From  victory,  when  you  land  it. 

Think — think— like  one  on  the  brink 
Of  something  too  grave  for^  laughter, 

Well — well — of  the  heaven  or  hell 
That!  follows  us  here  and  hereafter. 

Trust — trust — -as  indeed  you  must, 

God  in  his  varied  dealing: 
Wounds  He  will  give  that  your  soul  may 
live, 

And  then — attend  to  the  healing. 


140 


AUTUMN    WEATHER. 


AUTUMN  WEATHER. 

Yellow,  mellow,  ripened  days, 

Sheltered  in  a  golden  coating; 
O'er  the  dreamy,  listless  haze, 

White  and  dainty  cloudlets  floating; 
Winking  at  the  blushing  trees, 

And  the  sombre  furrowed  fallow; 
Smiling  at  the  airy  ease 

Of  the  southward-flying  swallow: 
Sweet  and  smiling  are  thy  ways, 
Beauteous,  golden  Autumn  days! 

Shivering,  quivering,  tearful  days, 

Fretfully  and  sadly  weeping; 
Dreading  still,  with  anxious  gaze, 

Icy  fetters  round  thee  creeping; 
O'er  the  cheerless,  withered  plain, 

Woefully  and  hoarsely  calling; 
Pelting  hail  and  drenching  rain 

On  thy  scanty  vestments  falling. 
Sad  and  mournful  are  thy  ways, 
Grieving,  wailing  Autumn  days! 
141 


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